


"Silly Love Songs"

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Revolver - The Beatles, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 35
Words: 50,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Lost My Little Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

Small and slightly cramped with squashy cushions and slightly threadbare sofas, the front parlor in the McCartney residence gave off an air of upper working-class luxury. The comfortable settees coupled with burnished wood tables, brass lamps, and a majestic upright piano at one end of the room created a homey atmosphere. It was a place where families gathered in boisterous groups to sing, drink, and be merry, the simple enjoyment of each other’s company sustaining all through the night.

However, at two on a warm Tuesday afternoon, the room was relatively quiet. Sunlight poured through the open windows as the lacy curtains wafted gently in the early spring breeze, dancing gaily through the opening. The house looked empty but upon closer inspection one would see the dark heads of two teenage boys, sitting together in a cramped little sofa, their knees and elbows touching as they balanced guitars on their knees. The older of the two leant forward uncomfortably, his eyes focused on his mate’s fingers as they formed an unknown chord, trying to copy it the best that he could. Turning his head this way and that, John tried to make sense of the mirror image of the chord he tried to master, but the effort was futile. So, after a minute or two of intense concentration, to the amusement of his friend, John sat back with an irritated huff, letting the guitar fall to the carpet with a dull clunk as he leant back against the armrest.

“Oi, I’m never going to get the fucking chords this way, mate,” John complained, eyes closed as he angled his head for a more comfortable spot.

Sighing, Paul placed his guitar down on the floor as well as he sunk into the cushions.

“Well, just try to remember the position of the fingers on the frets. You can always look in the mirror when you get home to reverse it,” Paul mused, idly. “That’s how I learned.”

With a shrug, John replied, “I suppose you’re right.” Sitting up, the older boy leaned towards Paul, eyes alighting upon a battered looking notebook that rested on his lap. “What’s that then?” he asked, curiously.

Looking down, Paul picked the book up in his hands, turning it over absently before answering. “This?” he asked. “It’s just a notebook where I scribble down the songs I’ve written.”

“You write songs?” John asked, reluctant admiration seeping into his voice.

Looking up in surprise and eyebrows furrowing slightly, Paul regarded John silently before answering. “Well, yeah” he shrugged, nonchalantly. “Don’t you?”

Looking a bit put out, John replied. “No, not really.”

“You’re joking!” the younger man exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. Then with a look of disbelief, Paul leaned back again as he continued to stare incredulously at John. “I don’t believe you.”

Growing irritated and starting to feel a bit like an idiot, John snapped back, “Why not?”

Paul simply shrugged again, the older boy’s apparent ire not affecting him. “I just don’t.”

“Well, I haven’t,” John bit out with a frown.

“But the first time that I saw you,” Paul began slowly, as if trying to make a point. “You were up on stage making lyrics up to all those songs…”

“That?” John exclaimed, laughing. “Bloody hell, I was just filching lyrics from other songs and just jumbling them all together.”

“Oh, come on John,” Paul replied in an exasperated voice. “That’s songwriting, innit? Finding words and phrases that you like and just making a mess of it?”

With a contemplative look oh his face, John mused almost to himself. “I never thought of it like that.” After a short pause, John continued, “Well, let’s have a look then.”

Clutching the notebook tightly in his hands, Paul looked down before answering. “At this?” he asked somewhat nervously.

Growing impatient, John huffed. “Well, yeah,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

Reluctantly, the younger boy offered the notebook to John, “All right,” he acquiesced with a sigh.

John leaned forward eagerly as he lifted his legs onto Paul’s lap, stretching out languidly as he placed the notebook in front of his face. Paul watched on a bit nervously, his eyes locked on John’s moving lips, as he waited for the older boy to finish reading.

_Well, I woke up late this morning_  
My head was in the whirl  
Only when I realized  
I lost my little girl.  
Oh, oh, oh, oh.

_Well her clothes were not expensive_  
Her hair didn’t always curl  
I don’t know why I loved her  
But I loved my little girl  
Oh, oh, oh, oh.

After he was done, John lowered the notebook slightly and looked at Paul over the top with one eyebrow raised. “Her hair didn’t always curl?”

Face colouring, Paul turned away, embarrassed. “Piss off,” he ground out. “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

Now grinning evilly, John tossed the notebook back to his mate as he made himself more comfortable, legs still stretched across Paul’s lap. “Well, I guess songwriting doesn’t take much talent then, does it?” he replied, cheekily.

Rolling his eyes, Paul shoved John’s legs of his lap as he tucked the notebook in his back pocket. “Yeah, that’s why I think you’ll do marvelously, Lennon,” he shot back with a smirk.

Smiling, John pushed himself up, letting his feet fall to the ground with a thud before looking sideways at the younger teen. “Not bad though. It’s actually quite good.” Grinning evilly, he nudged Paul with his elbow. “So, who’s it about, huh?” he asked with a wink. “A bird you fancy?

Shaking his head, Paul looked down at his lap as he smiled sadly. “No, it’s about me mum.”

Letting out a low whistle, John turned on his mate with a wolfish grin. “Oooh, someone fancies his mum! Didn’t know you had it in you, mate!” he crowed. Standing up, John moved towards the door leading out of the parlor, peering into the darkened hallway. “Come to think of it, I’ve never met her,” he said thoughtfully. Turning back to Paul he asked carelessly, “Is she around?

Paul dropped his eyes again, swallowing nervously before responding softly “Not exactly,” he said. Looking up, he pinned John with a pained look before continuing. “She passed away a few months ago.”

John froze in the doorway, seeming at a loss for words. After a minute’s silence between the two, John slowly walked back towards Paul and paced slowly in front of him. After a minute, the older boy paused and looked down at Paul’s lowered head.

“Oh, shit,” John whispered. “Sorry, Macca, I didn’t know.”

Surprised by the shortening of his surname, Paul looked up with a slight smile playing on his face. “It’s all right,” he began in a subdued voice. “I usually don’t like talking about it much.”

For a while, John simply stared back in silence. Unnerved, Paul started fidgeting on the couch.

“What?” Paul asked, defensively.

Shaking his head, John looked down at his mate sadly, “I just don’t know how you do it,” he said. “Sitting there with your mum dead. I’d go off me head if that happened to me.”

Clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, Paul tried his hand at a casual tone. “Yeah, well,” he began, his voice cracking slightly. Clearing his voice, he continued. “It’s been a while, so, I guess I’ve just gotten used to it.” Pausing, Paul sighed. “Miss having her around though.”

The two boys grew silent again, as the setting of the sun outside heralded twilight. Patting his trousers, John started to look for a pack of cigarettes in his pockets. Not finding one, he knelt and picked up his discarded jacket, groaning in disappointment as his search proved futile.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed. “I’m out.” Turning to Paul he asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a ciggie would you?”

Reaching toward the end table, Paul snatched up his own carton and tipped it in his hand, frowning when nothing slid onto his palm. “No, I’m out, too.”

Slipping the jacket over his arms, John picked his guitar off the floor, as he made his way towards the door.

“Well, come ‘ead,” he threw over his shoulder. “Let’s get to the store so I can pinch a new pack.”

Scrambling from the couch, Paul slipped on his own jacket and quickly checked his hair in the mirror over the mantelpiece, grinning at John as he said, “You do know that you can afford to buy a new one, right?”

Smiling impishly, John stepped out onto the front step as he turned towards his mate with a wink. “I know I can,” he said, “But what’s the fun in that?”

Smirking as he shook his head, Paul picked his guitar off the floor and followed John out of the house.


	2. I Call Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

“John!” Paul called from the side of the house, standing outside in the dewy moonlight.

However, the only answer he got was the sound of nighttime crickets and a distant car screeching down the street.

“John!!” he yelled again, being sure to keep his voice just loud enough to be heard from the second storey window, but still low so that it wouldn’t wake John’s cranky aunt or their stuffy neighbours. When he still got no answer, Paul began to feel a bit desperate, and of course, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Kneeling on the wet grass, Paul picked up a handful of pebbles and started to chuck them at what he assumed was a closed window. However, when the sound of hard rock hitting glass did not reach his ears, Paul surmised that that window was indeed open. So, with a sigh, Paul began to climb the tall tree in front of the older boy’s bedroom window, as he had done so many times before. In a matter of seconds he was in the dark room, the chamber lit only by the light of the streetlamps outside. Creeping across the wood floors quietly, Paul moved closer to the bed, somewhat surprised to see John’s figure huddled under the covers, despite it being a warm night, and holding onto his pillow for dear life.

Upon closer inspection, Paul could just barely make out the faint outline of dried tear tracks moving down John’s face, the skin around his eyes slightly puffy and red. The faint whimpers that came from the sleeping boy caused Paul to wince, the pain in the sound cutting him deeply. With a sad sigh, Paul dropped to his knees beside the bed and gently ran his hand through John’s hair, slowly brushing the amber coloured locks out of his mate’s closed eyes.

Not surprisingly, the older boy had not shown any emotion that day, the news of his mother’s death seeming to have no effect on him at all. The famous John Lennon emotional shields had gone up, and it made him seem calm and uncaring, immediately prompting the scandalized whispers of their friends and their mothers.

“Always was an ungrateful boy, that Lennon.”

“Not that you can blame him. That trollop of a mother of his abandoning him when he was still a little boy.

“Did you know that she was living with a man, a wine steward, and that they had two daughters?”

“No!”

“But wasn’t she still married to that old sailor, Freddie Lennon?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I believe she was! Apparently living in sin was no problem for ol’ Julia.”

Paul wanted to tell the fucking old women to shut up, but one look into John’s seemingly expressionless face, made him pause. Outwardly, John seemed unfazed, but all one had to do was look into his eyes to the manic agony swirling there. Paul knew that look very well. It was the same look he had seen in his own eyes after his mum had passed away.

Sighing sadly again, Paul rose to his feet and began to pace in an agitated manner; his heavy treads making a dull thud on the floor. On his second pass beside the bed, Paul shot a glance towards John and suddenly spotted an open notebook peeking out from under the older teen’s leg. Gently pulling the notebook free, Paul found the pages before him covered in John’s small writing.

Curiosity getting the best of him, Paul lowered himself to the edge of the bed, his eyes scanning over the words.

 _I call your name but you’re not there_  
Was I to blame for being unfair  
Oh I can’t sleep at night  
Since you’ve been gone  
I never weep at night  
I can’t go on

 _Well don’t you know I can’t take it_  
I don’t know who can  
I’m not going to make it  
I’m not that kind of man

 _Oh I can’t sleep at night_  
But just the same  
I never weep at night  
I call your name

 _Don’t you know I can’t take it_  
I don’t know who can  
I’m not going to make it  
I’m not that kind of man

 _Oh I can’t sleep at night_  
But just the same  
I never weep at night  
I call your name  
I call your name  
I call your name

Unbeknownst to him, Paul’s eyes began to water, and only when a tear splattered the page before him, causing the ink in one spot to run, did Paul realise that he had started to cry. Rubbing his eyes furiously, the younger boy did not notice the movement of the restless figure behind him as John slowly swam into wakefulness.

“Paulie?” a husky voice queried, almost causing Paul to jump a foot in surprise.

He turned around eyes finding John’s slowly opening ones before stammering, “Johnny, how… how… are you feeling?”

With a roll of his eyes, John slowly sat up and leaned against the headboard as he replied in a biting tone, “Fucking great.”

Flinching at John’s attitude, Paul failed to answer, his concerned gaze once trained on John now trained on his lap.

Ignoring Paul’s silence, the older boy continued to speak, “So, what the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, irritated, arms folded over his chest

Looking up and taking note of the paleness of John’s face, Paul responded evenly, not wanting to rise to John’s hostile tone, “Just wanted to see how you were.”

“Yeah?” John, sneered. “Well, I’m just peachy.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Paul placed his hand on John’s arm as he leaned into the older boy. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

John simply shook Paul’s arm off angrily, before glaring at his mate. “Of course I am, you wanker,” he ground out, voice starting to shake. “What else am I supposed to be?”

The fierce look in John’s eyes faded with each word, his attempt at looking angry failing miserably as tears began to sting his eyes.

Throwing caution to the wind, Paul leaned in closer and cupped John’s face in his hands, his breath mingling with his friend’s.

With a grave look on his face, Paul simply whispered, “It’s just me, John, It’s just me. You don’t have to fucking do this. I know what it feels like.”

Trembling slightly, John pushed Paul away violently, causing the younger boy to almost fall off the bed. His voice tight with emotion, John stared Paul down as he began to shout.

“What do you know? What do you fucking know?” the irate teenager seethed, his anger palpable in the small room. “Was your mum hit by a fucking car? Taken away from you just when she came back into your life again?” he raged. “You tell me that you know, but you don’t know shit.”

Face deathly pale, Paul stood on shaking limbs, his hazel eyes flashing dangerously as he glared down at his friend.

“No,” Paul began, his voice low. “I certainly don’t know shit. Unlike you, I got to see my mum waste away in front of my eyes every fucking day, seeing her retreat to her room as the pain racked her body, as she grew weak.” Breathing heavily, Paul covered his eyes, as the older teen’s distressed expression escaped him. In a tumble of words, Paul continued. “Fucking knowing that she was dying but no one would tell you a fucking goddamn thing so you were left guessing what was wrong!” As his body began to shake violently, Paul’s eyes flew open and he fixed John with a pained look. “You don’t want to talk to me?” he asked coldly. “Then fine. I’ll just leave you to yourself.”

Paul turned and stalked across the room, each step bringing him closer to the window. However, just as he was about to climb out, the sound of gut wrenching sobs reached his ears.

Hands covering his face, John choked out from between his fingers, “It hurts, Paulie. It fucking hurts so much that I don’t know what to do.”

His shoulders slumping, Paul expelled a shaky breath before retracing his steps, not hesitating to envelope John into his arms as he curled onto the bed beside the sobbing teen.

“Shhh, Johnny,” Paul said in a soothing voice, as he began to rock John from side to side, his hand making small comforting circles on his friend’s back. “I know. I fucking know. But it’ll get better. I promise.”

John simply continued to sob into Paul’s shoulder, choked words reaching Paul’s ears.

“And if it doesn’t?”

Smiling softly, Paul pressed his cheek against John’s hair as he continued to rock the two of them. “Then you can punch me until you feel better again.”

That elicited a small laugh from John, causing Paul to laugh along with him, before both teens sobered.

“But it will get better,” Paul whispered. “I know it will.”

The two boys stayed in the same position as John’s tears slowly subsided, giving way to the occasional sniffle. With a sigh, Paul moved to go, disentangling himself from John as he rose from the bed. His retreat, however, was quickly stopped when he felt a hand on his arm. Turning towards John, Paul found the older boy looking up at him tearfully, with a hint of fear in his eyes.

“Please,” John gulped. “Please stay. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Looking a bit scared, and undecided at first, Paul almost said no, but the look in his mate’s face stopped him. So, with a slow nod, Paul said yes.

As John moved over to make room, the younger teen took off his shoes and jacket before hesitantly crawling into bed, lying stiffly as he felt the mattress shift beneath him. Immediately John curled into Paul’s side as he lay a hand on his friend’s chest. After a moment’s hesitation, Paul relaxed enough to wrap his arm around John’s waist, bringing him closer. With a shaky sigh, John’s eyes closed almost instantly, his breathing evening out as he slipped into an uneasy slumber.

With an echoing sigh, Paul turned slightly so that he was facing John, and after placing a light kiss on his mate’s forehead he too fell into a dreamless asleep.


	3. I’ll Follow the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

 

Whistling a jaunty tune to himself, John strolled down the narrow lane, unending rows of council flats on either side of him as children of all shapes and sizes barreled through the streets. He was nearly run over by one of these rambunctious little tykes, but so intent was he on his destination, that John did not even notice. The day was a sunny one, deliciously warm with just a slight hint of cool air circling around him, making the sun’s rays that beat down on the teenager’s head more bearable. As he walked, there was a slight skip in his step, the dark-haired boy giving off an air of barely repressed excitement.

It had been quite a long time since he had last been to Forthlin Road, and much to his chagrin an almost equally long time had passed since he and his best mate had spent some quality time together. Things had just been busy for the lad, with art college and everything. Sure he saw Paul occasionally during lunch, but the closeness that had characterized their relationship before seemed to be lacking. Plus, he had made a new friend, one Stuart Sutcliffe who was around his age and a fantastic painter to boot, the two spending most of their time together in the Jac having long intellectual discussions that lasted well into the night. It was a fucking miracle that he had any time now to visit his old friend!

As he neared the black gate in front of 20 Forthlin Road, 18, John’s heart unexpectedly sped up, and he dashed through, the iron hinges squeaking softly as he eagerly strode towards the oft-unlocked red door. However, as he came closer, the faint sounds of an acoustic guitar assaulted his ears, and with a grin, John parked himself under the front room’s window, sitting on the concrete ledge as Paul’s voice wafted outside.

_One day you’ll look to see I’ve gone_   
_For tomorrow may rain,_   
_So I’ll follow the sun_

_Some day you’ll know I was the one_   
_But tomorrow may rain,_   
_So I’ll follow the sun_

_And now the time has come_   
_And, my love, I must go_   
_And though I lose a friend_   
_In the end you will know, oh_

_One day you’ll find that I have gone_   
_But tomorrow may rain,_   
_So I’ll follow the sun_   
_But tomorrow may rain,_   
_So I’ll follow the sun_

_And now the time has come_   
_And, my love, I must go_   
_And though I lose a friend_   
_In the end you will know, oh_

_One day you’ll find that I have gone_   
_But tomorrow may rain,_   
_So I’ll follow the sun._

Toe tapping to the lilting sound of Paul’s voice, so perfectly accompanied by the strains of his guitar, John listened with a smile.

“Not bad that one,” John muttered to himself appreciatively, as he stood, dusting the seat of his pants as he did so.

Quickly retracing his steps, John was just about to let himself into the house again, until he heard the mocking tones of Paul’s younger brother right on the other side of the door.

“So…” Mike said, a knowing smirk in his voice.

Voice slightly lower than that of his brother’s, Paul answered testily, “So what?”

“That was a queer little song, wasn’t it?” the younger McCartney sneered maliciously.

“What did you say?” Paul asked in a dangerously low voice.

“Oh, are you hard of hearing now? Mike said loudly “Here let me repeat myself,” and with a voice bordering on shouting, “That was a queer little song, wasn’t it?”

John winced, Mike’s voice loud enough to carry outside quite well. Holding his breath, John pressed his ear even closer to the door, eager to hear Paul’s response.

His voice uncharacteristically cold, Paul replied, “I heard you the first time, Mike.”

A tense silence followed.

Voice sounding a bit impatient, Mike’s voice broke the silence. “Well, aren’t you going to answer me then?”

With a tired sigh, Paul finally responded “Oh, just piss off, Michael,” the continual strumming of the acoustic guitar accompanying his words. “It’s nothing of the sort.”

Mike let out a derisive snort. “Oh, come off it, Paul!” he exclaimed. “You can’t honestly tell me that that song isn’t about John!”

Outside, John’s entire body froze at hearing his name, supplemented by the speeding up of his heart and a sudden shortness of breath.

Voice trembling slightly, Paul answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just a bloody song.”

Laughing openly, Mike replied, “Yeah, and I’m just a devilishly handsome bloke.”

Paul suddenly barked out a harsh laugh. “You’re fucking deluded, you are,” he said, a smirk evident in his voice.

“I’m deluded?” Mike began, aghast. “Please, Paul,” he continued, speaking the way one would to a child. “You’ve been sitting here day after day for the last couple of weeks just waiting for the fucking phone to ring. Hoping and praying that your dear friend Johnny will call you up like he used to.”

After a brief silence, Paul spoke in a voice choked with anger. “Shut the fuck, up Michael.”

In a voice that suddenly bordered on sympathetic, Michael continued as if Paul had not spoken. “He’s not going to call, Paul. He’s just not. He’s fucking moved on. “

Outside, John’s head dropped, his insides churning with guilt.

The strumming of the guitar suddenly stopped, as Paul replied coldly, “I said shut up.”

Suddenly angry, Mike started to yell, his voice carrying so far outside that it caused a few of the kids outside to stop in astonishment.

“You know what?” the younger boy yelled. “Poor George has been coming around every fucking day, even though you shunned the poor bloke after meeting the all-mighty Lennon. Man, if I were him, I’d be laughing my ass off right now. Seeing you get the same shabby treatment that you’ve been subjecting him to.”

“Fuck off, Mike!”

“He’s not coming, Paul,” Mike continued angrily. “Not now, not ever. Ever since he met that little friend of his, Stuart or something, he just doesn’t need you anymore. Maybe it’s about time that you realized that.” Making a disgusted voice, Mike mumbled to himself, “God, when did you become so queer anyway?”

Now shouting as well, Paul yelled back. “I don’t fucking need John, I never have, and I never fucking will!”

Laughing mockingly, Mike threw in his parting shot, “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, big brother.”

His last words were punctuated by the sound of his retreating footsteps.

The faint sound of Paul’s muttering however, soon sounded in the quiet house.

“He’s probably right,” the teenager sighed sadly, “But I just can’t make myself give up just yet.”

The strumming of the guitar started again, this time the dark-haired boy humming in time to the music as John fled the premises of 20 Forthlin Road without a backwards glance.


	4. I Got to Find My Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The sound of someone pounding at the door rang through the quiet house, the thrashing that it was receiving so loud that it surely would awaken anyone within a five-mile radius! Hair mussed, and eyes wild, Paul’s figure appeared at the top of the stairs as he turned on the light in the second floor hallway. The poor boy swayed slightly as he stumbled down, a look of barely repressed anger etched into his face as he plotted the demise of the person who dared make such a racket at so late an hour. Pulling his robe around him tightly and yawning wide, Paul quickly stalked his way towards the front door.

After wrenching the door open violently, Paul’s mouth dropped open comically as his eyes landed upon the face on the other side of the door.

Guitar in hand, and fist raised to pound on the door again, a brief “Deer in headlights” look stole across John’s face, before the older boy quickly slipped behind his usual confident, unruffled exterior. With a look of determination, he then swept past the immobile Paul and parked himself in the middle of the hallway, leaning casually against the wall.

Unable to say a word at this sudden appearance, Paul simply gaped at him owlishly.

Smirking, John reached over, placed two fingers under Paul’s chin, and closed his mouth with a snap, causing the younger boy to come out of his daze.

“Best not keep your mouth open like that, mate,” John smirked, with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “You just might give another bloke ideas.”

Shock was soon replaced by anger as Paul scowled. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he ground out from between gritted teeth.

Shrugging, John replied simply, “I came to see you.”

“At fucking 3 AM,” Paul responded angrily, his words more of a statement than an actual question.

Feigning surprise, John simply looked back at Paul with wide, innocent eyes. “Oh, is it that early?” he asked.

Not even acknowledging the question, Paul just glared. “What do you want John?”

Losing some of his bravado, John simply stammered out an “Uhhh…”

The angry tirade that Paul had been rehearsing in his head for months suddenly burst out. “I mean, I’ve barely seen you in months and suddenly you drop by at the most inconvenient time ever. And for what? To fucking annoy me? I don’t get it.”

Holding up his hands in surrender, John spoke in a placating manner. “No, no,” he said quickly. “I came to play a song for you.”

“And this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?” the younger boy groused.

“Umm, no?”

Paul simply sighed in response.

“John…” he began, his voice trailing off tiredly.

“Wait,” John interrupted desperately. “Just hear me out okay.” Pausing, John hesitantly looked up the stairs before asking in a hushed voice, “Uhhh, is your dad home?”

Laughing shortly, Paul answered with a roll of his eyes. “Thankfully, no. He and Mike are visiting my Auntie Gin for the weekend. Because let me tell you, if he had been here, once he heard the fucking racket that you were making you would probably be on your ass in the middle of the street.”

“Right,” John replied with a pained smile.

Looking at the older boy, Paul raised his eyebrows, “So…?” he said, expectantly.

Momentarily confused, John simply stared back. “So, what?” he asked.

With an exasperated sigh, Paul asked “The song?”

Slapping his forehead sheepishly, John raised his guitar and placed the strap around his neck, strumming the instrument experimentally.

“Oh, yeah!” he exclaimed. “I almost forgot.” With a slightly nervous, look, John quickly looked over at Paul before looking away again. “I, umm, I heard it on the radio a few days ago and I just thought of you.”

After finding the first chord, John began to sing.

_I’m gonna search this town,_   
_From door to door._   
_The love I crave_   
_I can’t find no more._

_I got to find my baby,_   
_I declare this ain’t no lie._   
_I ain’t had no real good loving_   
_Since that man said goodbye._

_You know I hate to see the sun_   
_Sinking to the west,_   
_‘cos I know my whole life’s_   
_Gonna be one solid mess._

_I got to find my baby,_   
_I declare this ain’t no lie._   
_I ain’t had no real good loving_   
_Since that man said goodbye._

_Well ever since the day_   
_That he said we were through,_   
_I’ve been nervous_   
_And shook up too._

_I got to find my baby,_   
_I declare this ain’t no lie._   
_I had no real good loving_   
_Since that man said goodbye._

_Well I don’t care if the last thing_   
_I ever do in my life,_   
_Is to find that little man_   
_Make him my wife._

_I got to find my baby,_   
_I declare this ain’t no lie._   
_I had no real good loving_   
_Since that man said goodbye._

_After finishing, John looked up nervously, catching the indecipherable look in Paul’s eyes. Gulping convulsively, the older boy offered up a weak smile._

After a moment’s silence, Paul asked with a raised eyebrow, “I got to find my baby?”

Flushing slightly, John choked out an “Uh… yeah…”

Growing enraged, Paul stalked away from John as he ran an agitated hand through his hair. After a moment of silence, the younger boy whirled back around, eyes flashing angrily. “I’m not the one who left you, John,” Paul bit out. “If anything, you’re the one who said goodbye. Or actually, you kinda left without saying another word to me.”

“Paul…”

“No, John,” Paul interrupted harshly, “Let me finish. Since you’ve started college I could count on one hand the number of times that I’ve actually seen you. It’s not fair, you know. I understand that you’re meeting new people and are learning new things, but that doesn’t mean that you abandon the friends that you had before.”

Eyes pleading desperately, John tried to reach out to Paul, “I know, mate. I know.”

Shoulders sagging, Paul looked over at John sadly. “Then why’d you do it?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Paul” John said softly. “But I am sorry. Isn’t that enough?”

Paul let out a weary sigh, as he sagged against the wall, “I don’t know, John.”

Suddenly grinning, John leaned over and said, “Come on, love.” Then in an overly syrupy voice he began to sing again, “I’m gonna search this town from door to door. The love I crave I can’t find no more. I got to find my baby…”

Putting down his guitar, John grabbed hold of Paul around the waist and started to swing him around the room in a maniacal version of the waltz.

With a sudden laugh, Paul tried to wrest himself away from the frenetic dancing, “Fuck, John!” he shouted out from between chuckles. “Let go! What’s gotten into you?”

Still swinging the two of them around, John answered simply, “I just don’t want to lose my baby again, Paulie.”

Finally getting free, Paul bent over as he sought to catch his breath. “Oh fine,” he finally relented.

A large smile broke out on John’s face, as he asked eagerly, “So, am I forgiven?”

Shaking his head in amusement, Paul replied, “Yeah, yeah, you bloody wanker.”

Leaning against the wall with a satisfied grin, John tipped an imaginary hat towards Paul with a “Ta, mate.”

Growing serious, Paul faced John head on and said firmly, “But if this happens again, that’s it. All right?”

Nodding his head vigorously, John quickly agreed. “All right, mate,” he replied. “Whatever you say.”

Smirking, Paul leant against the wall alongside John, as he jabbed the older boy with his elbow, “So, I’m your baby, huh?” the younger boy asked cheekily.

Rolling his eyes, John poked Paul in the side right back. “Well, I wanted to change it to ‘wanker,’ but it just didn’t go with the tune.”

“Very funny,” Paul responded, dryly. “I… just can’t…” the younger boy yawned widely, as his words tapered off into nothing.

Laughing, John pushed himself off the wall, and hoisted his guitar over his shoulder, “I guess that’s my cue to go,” he said with a smile as Paul looked back at him sheepishly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, all right?”

Looking intently at John, Paul asked “You sure about that?”

Reaching over, John clasped Paul’s shoulder tendrils of electricity fusing each boy the moment that they made contact. Startled, John quickly dropped his hand and ran it through his hair, as Paul coughed lightly in uneasiness.

Regaining his composure, John turned on Paul again, locking gazes with him. “Yes, I am,” he replied seriously. “I’ll be here.”

And with a sharp salute, the older boy wrenched open the front door and vanished into the night.

Smiling slightly, Paul walked over to the door and stared outside for a few minutes, his eyes trained on the older boy’s loping figure as it moved further into the distance, until he turned a corner and disappeared out of sight. With a shake of his head, Paul closed the front door, and quickly ascended the stairs, turning off the light in the landing and plunging the house in total darkness.


	5. Ain’t She Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The streets of Hamburg were never truly empty. At any time of the day you could see idle policemen pretending to keep the peace. Women wandering about and running their little errands. Or maybe little children running off to school, books in hand.

The nights were no less busy, though the business conducted was of a wholly different nature.

In Hamburg, especially on the Reperbahn in the St. Pauli, the real face of the city came out, garishly done up, of course. The bright lights of bars, strip clubs, and sex shops brightened the streets, neon signs flashing overhead as music poured out into the streets. It was on a night like this that four very oversexed and hungover Liverpudillians could be found making the rounds, happy to finally have a night off after non-stop playing at a local venue, the Star Club.

Stumbling through the crowded avenue, Paul held a copy of the disc that they recorded earlier that week as the Beat Brothers backing fellow Englishman Tony Sheridan. A recording of “My Bonnie” though it may be, it was still an official release, and the young man was pleased as punch. Excitement colouring his features, Paul turned towards George and Pete to share in the excitement, but as always, the two wandered off, chasing after a pair of particularly good-looking prostitutes who attended their shows on a regular basis. The stumbling, laughing foursome was soon out of sight.

Huffing with disappointment, Paul turned to his only companion, eyes rolling as he caught sight of John’s figure as he staggered along. The young man, as per usual, having had one too many drinks that night.

Shrugging to himself, Paul addressed his mate, “Fucking, hell John!!” he exclaimed, giddily. “A fucking record! Our record! I still can’t believe that we actually made a legitimate recording. This is fucking fantastic.!”

Eyes rolling into the back of his head as he fought to stay upright, John slurred drunkenly, “You’re right, there Paulie.” Giggling to himself suddenly, John exclaimed, “Hey! Paulie sounds kind of like Bonnie.” And with maniacal laughter, the dark-haired man broke into song.

_My Paulie lies over the ocean, My Paulie lies over the sea. My Paulie lies over the ocean. Oh bring back my Paulie to me._

Stumbling as he ran, John belted the song out at the top of his lungs, swaying from side to side as he waved around a beer bottle as though conducting a band.

Shaking his head in resignation, Paul gave chase as tried to catch up with his inebriated friend.

Laughing as he caught up to John, Paul remarked, “You’re fucking nuts, Lennon.”

Turning his head to the side, John slurred, “Yeah, but that’s why you love me.”

A deep red blush rose unbidden to Paul’s cheeks at John’s remark as he stammered out a little too quickly, “I do not.” After a short pause, he added, “Wanker.”

John simply ignored him as he continued to make his way through the slowly emptying street with Paul following quickly behind. Suddenly, the older man stopped, causing Paul to slam into his back, but John didn’t seem to notice.

“That song fucking sucks, mate,” John suddenly said decisively. With a flourish, he turned around to face the perplexed Paul, and with a drunken smirk he began to sing anew, eyes twinkling mischievously.

_Oh ain’t he sweet,_   
_Well see him walking down that street._   
_Yes I ask you very confidentially:_   
_Ain’t he sweet?_

_Oh ain’t he nice,_   
_Well look him over once or twice._   
_Yes I ask you very confidentially:_   
_Ain’t he nice?_

_Just cast an eye_   
_In his direction._   
_Oh me oh my,_   
_Ain’t that perfection?_

_Oh I repeat_   
_Well don’t you think that’s kind of neat?_   
_Yes I ask you very confidentially:_   
_Ain’t he sweet?_

_Oh ain’t he sweet,_   
_Well see him walking down that street._   
_Well I ask you very confidentially:_   
_Ain’t he sweet?_

Paul blushed again as he shook his head in amusement.

“I think you’ve got the words wrong, John,” he laughed. “Isn’t it supposed to be “Ain’t she sweet?”

Weaving back and forth rather violently, John sought to keep his head upright as he trained his wandering eyes on Paul’s form. “I know that, you tosser,” John slurred in a drunken, argumentative manner. Blinking his eyes slowly as his head drooped low for a second before whipping it back up again, John seemed to lose his train of thought, but after a moment’s pause he continued. “But I can’t exactly serenade you with a song about a girl, now can I? No matter how much you may look like one with those lovely eyes and pouty lips.”

His face growing redder by the second, Paul grumbled out a very put out “Shut up!”

However, like much of the night, John preferred ignoring his mate, and so made no comment, however, as soon as he tried to take a step forward, he tripped over his feet, almost falling face first into a puddle of very suspicious looking liquid. And he would’ve fallen too if it hadn’t been for Paul’s quick reflexes.

So there they both were, Paul and John standing in the middle of the surprisingly empty street. Paul’s arm was securely around John’s waist and John’s arms were around the younger man’s neck, the job of keeping John upright falling to the both of them. Their bodies were flush against each other, chest-to-chest and thigh-to-thigh, the two fitting together surprisingly well. The close proximity caused Paul’s heart to speed up as his breath started to come in short gasps.

Feeling more than a little uncomfortable, Paul turned his head away and tried to disentangle himself, however, the next thing he knew was John’s hand on his cheek guiding his face towards John’s as the older man lowered his face for a tantalizing kiss.

For a split second Paul froze.

The kiss was surprisingly gentle, just the lightest touch of lips, sweet and simple. Paul gasped at the touch of John’s tongue on his lips, as the kiss grew more heated he could taste beer and a hint of nicotine clinging to the inside of John’s mouth. Independent of mind and body, Paul’s hand slowly reached up and curled itself around the back of John’s neck, his fingers gently playing with the soft curls at the nape. With a sigh, both boys moved even closer together, their arms wrapped tightly around each other as they sought more contact.

The spell was broken, however, when John stumbled back, hand over his mouth as he bent over and retched drunkenly on the side of the road.

Startled at the sudden loss of contact, Paul stood wide-eyed for a moment, his hand on his lips before the sounds of John’s agony reached his ears and forced him to return to his senses. When he spotted his mate emptying the contents of his stomach, Paul sighed tiredly and quickly walked over, wrapping his arm around John’s shoulders as he gingerly swept John’s hair out of his face.

After a minute or two John, finally straightened up with Paul’s help, and after wiping a hand across his mouth, he looked up at Paul piteously and whimpered, “Take me home, Paulie?”

With a small smile, Paul nodded his head. “Sure, Johnny,” he answered. “Let’s go home.”

Taking John’s arm and placing it around his shoulders as he placed his own around the other man’s waist, Paul hoisted him up, the two staggering down the street, one out of his senses and the other preoccupied with the events of the night as dawn slowly approached, the dark sky around them bleeding into gold and red.


	6. Besame Mucho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The door to the darkened hotel room burst open, instantly lighted by the glow of the hallway lamps as it spilled through the doorway. Slightly chilly, and not at all comfortable, but for the travel weary, it was as close to heaven as they were going to get. The light was soon blocked by a shadowy figure in the doorway, and with arms spread wide John sauntered in, throwing his bag into a corner as he flipped on a lamp.

“Home sweet home!” he declared happily, pausing slightly as he took a turn about the room, taking in the saggy mattress of the double bed that stood in the center of the floor, the dilapidated dresser that looked as though it has seen better days, and a dirty mirror that stood by the window. This picturesque room was completed with a stout nightstand by the bed with a tarnished brass lamp topped by a dingy lampshade.

Grinning wryly, John amended his statement. “Well, okay, not quite home,” he said. “But I suppose it’ll have to do.”

With a flying jump, the young man bounded towards the bed and flopped face down on the mattress, the springs emitting a loud groan under his weight. Sighing, John embraced the saggy monstrosity, arms and legs hanging over the side, as he lay spread-eagled on his stomach.

Paul’s tired face followed behind him, the younger man’s eyes half-closed as he turned to shut door, letting his leather jacket slide from his shoulders and puddle on the floor. With a grimace, he rolled his head, wincing at the little pops his aching shoulders and neck made. Throwing his bag much like John had earlier, Paul watched it sail though the air with grim satisfaction as it hit the wall with a dull thud and slid quickly to the threadbare carpet.

Finally turning to survey the room, Paul scowled tiredly “Ugh, I’m fucking…”

The words soon died on his lips, as his eyes finally took in the entire hotel room.

Puzzled, John turned on his side and propped himself up on his elbow.

“Fucking what?” John asked, frowning deeply when his eyes took in the expression on Paul’s face.

Standing stock-still in the middle of the room, Paul was deathly pale, a muscle noticeably twitching in his cheek as he seemed to have stopped breathing. He looked frightened as fuck.

“Macca?” John called out worriedly, but received no response from the younger man. Sitting up, John slowly made his way across the room and stood in front of Paul, snapping his fingers in front of his mate’s face. “Paulie?” he called again, but the response, or lack thereof, was the same.

Growing irritated, John placed his mouth against Paul’s ear and let out an earsplitting bellow. “PAUL!!”

Jumping a foot into the air, Paul whirled on John, the frightened and dazed expression now replaced by one of anger.

“What the fuck, John?” he snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

John simply threw him an incredulous look. “Me?” he exclaimed. “You’re asking me what my problem is? Fucking hell! You weren’t saying anything, you tosser!” he yelled back. “What is wrong with you?”

Paling considerably, Paul turned away and began backpedaling as he muttered under his breath, “Nothing…”

Glaring back, John advanced on his retreating friend. “Don’t fucking give me that!” he ground out. “You look as though you’re about jump out of the bloody window. What’s up?”

Gulping, Paul blushed as he inclined his head towards the middle of the room. “There’s only one bed,” he whispered.

A look of absolute astonishment embellished John’s features. “And…?” he asked, eyes wide.

Growing redder by the second, Paul choked out, “How are we supposed to sleep?”

John’s look of incredulity did not fade. In fact, with every word that fell from Paul’s lips, the look seemed to become even more pronounced.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked, aghast. “We’ve fucking shared a bed countless times before. Or have you forgotten?”

Turning away, Paul mumbled under his breath, “No, I haven’t.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, John cried, “Then what’s the fucking problem now?”

Running a hand through hair, Paul backed away from John, visibly trying to regain a semblance of control. “No-nothing,” he quickly stammered out as he lowered himself on the bed. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Shaking his head, John followed, the springs protesting loudly as he sat beside Paul, patting the nervous man on the back in a comforting gesture.

This, however, only succeeded in causing Paul to leap off the bed and land practically halfway across the room.

“Fucking hell!” John shouted. “What is with you? I’ve never seen you this jumpy before!!”

Wringing his hands together, Paul squeaked “Nothing.” Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Nothing,” he repeated. “I’m fine.”

Looking thoroughly unconvinced, but now too tired to care, John simply muttered, “Yea, right” under his breath before addressing his jumpy mate. “Good,” he replied in a brisk manner. “Then can we please get some sleep? I’m fucking knackered!” With a smirk he continued, “ And if it makes you feel any better, I won’t try to bugger you in the middle of the night.”

Paul let out a peal of laughter, one that sounded so incredibly forced, that John couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at him. Smiling sheepishly, Paul turned to his bag, shoulders slumping as he rummaged through it for a pair of pajama bottoms and a shirt to sleep in.

As soon as Paul was done changing, he turned around, only to be met with the sight of John’s bare back as the older man rummaged through his stuff, pajama pants riding low on his hips. Unable to turn away, Paul simply gazed for a minute, but then with a mental shake, he quickly slipped into bed, making sure to lie above the covers.

After a minute or two, John joined Paul and he quickly slipped between the sheets, reaching over to flip the light off before laying down with his back to Paul.

After a few minutes of complete silence in the darkened room, John turned over slightly and fixed Paul with a hard stare.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asked, crossly.

Paul looked over, confused.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, brow furrowing slightly.

Rolling his eyes, John fixed his friend with a reproachful glare. “Do you want to freeze in the middle of the night?” he asked, exasperatedly.

With a huff, Paul turned around, “I’m fine, John,” he stated.

“Like hell you’re fine!” John exclaimed angrily. “Your fucking trembling is shaking the entire bed! Now get the fuck under the covers before I push you out entirely!”

With a sound of annoyance, Paul slid between the covers, keeping a foot of empty space between him and John as he turned his back on the older man. After a minute of looking at Paul’s back, John turned over as well with a shake of his head.

Silence fell between the two once more, but again it didn’t last very long. Nervous tic in full swing, Paul began to hum a tune to himself, as his right hand tapped out the rhythm on the headboard.

A bit calmer than before, John turned over again, and after a brief silence he asked, “What’s that?”

Still tapping the unnamed rhythm, Paul answered with a “What’s what?.”

“What’s that you’re singing?”

Smirking slightly, Paul replied, “I’m not singing. I’m humming.”

Rolling his eyes again, John huffed, “Fuck, you’re being difficult tonight. Fine, what are you humming?”

Pausing before answering, Paul blushed before replying softly, “Besame Mucho.”

Laughing, John turned to his mate and asked, “Besame Mucho? What the fuck for?”

Staring hard at the wall facing the bed, Paul responded vaguely. “It’s, umm, just stuck in my head.”

After a brief silence, John piped up, “Well, sing it for us then.”

Startled, Paul turned away from the exciting view of the wall to regard his friend with a shocked look on his face. “Wh-what?” he stammered. “Now?”

“No, a month from now,” John replied sarcastically. “Yes, fucking now, you wanker.”

“But…”

“Macca…” John trailed off threateningly.

Grumbling, Paul finally relented with a sigh. “Fine!!” he mumbled, before launching into the song.

_Besame, besame mucho,_  
Each time I bring you a kiss  
I hear music divine.  
So besame besame mucho,  
Yeh I love you forever  
Say that you’ll always be mine.

_Dearest one, if you should leave me_  
Then each little dream will take wings  
And my life would be through.  
So besame, besame mucho,  
Yeah I love you forever,  
Make all my dreams come true.

John propped himself on his elbow as he turned to face Paul, smiling softly as the younger man’s husky voice sent unexplainable shivers down his spine. With a quick shake to clear his head, John preferred not to dwell on the feelings that coursed through his body at the sound of Paul’s voice and presence, choosing to simply enjoy the moment.

_Oh this joy is something new,_   
_My arms are holding you,_   
_I never knew this thrill before._   
_Who ever thought I’d be_   
_Holding you close to me_   
_Whispering it’s you I adore._

_So dearest one, if you should leave me_   
_Then each little dream will take wings_   
_And my life would be through._   
_So besame, besame mucho,_   
_Yeah I love you forever,_   
_Make all my dreams come true._   
_Love me forever,_   
_Make all my dreams come true._

After Paul’s voice trailed away with the end of the song, John pretended to swoon. With hand over his heart and look of rapture on his face, John draped himself across Paul’s body, wrapping one arm across the younger man’s chest as he tangled their legs together.

Sighing like a school girl in heat, John moaned, “Ohhh, that sets my heart all a-flutter! Sing me some more, you gorgeous man, you!”

Without a word, Paul suddenly disentangled himself and stood up, running a shaky hand through his hair as he did so.

“I… Uhhh…” he stammered. “I’m going to go out for a walk.” And with long strides, Paul crossed the room and made a hasty exit as the door slammed behind his retreating back.

John slowly sat up, looking utterly mystified.

“What the fuck is up with him tonight?” he said to himself, as he continued to stare at the closed door.


	7. Love Me Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The crowds had departed, taking with it the non-stop shrieking and fainting that usually characterized the oft-crowded venue. The cavernous chamber, however, still smelled as though there were a hundred bodies packed in, the odour of old sweat, paint, and disinfectant permeating each and every surface and alcove. It was the kind of stench that would never leave you, no matter how hard you scrubbed your skin.

Sitting of to the side in the largest of the alcoves were John and Paul, the two young men clearly at work. John was seated at the piano while Paul was close at hand on a nearby chair, guitar perched on one knee, battered notebook on the other. A look of intense concentration fused his features as he strummed a chord, his head tilting to the side as he pondered the sound before jotting something down. So intent was he on the task at hand that he failed to the notice anything else happening around him.

John’s concentration, however, was nonexistent, his mind wandering as he hit random keys and looked of into the distance, cigarette dangling precariously from between his lips.

After a while of staring at nothing, John turned his gaze on Paul and proceeded to stare at him for a while. When the younger man looked up and caught John’s thoughtful gaze, the older man quickly looked away. Puzzled by his mate’s behaviour, Paul opened his mouth to say something, but seeming to think better of it, he simply shook his head and returned to his guitar without a word.

After a few more minutes of silence, John finally spoke.

In a slightly hushed voice, John leaned forwards, his eyes darting around the room before whispering, “Do you reckon that what we did was a bit dodgy?”

Not looking up, Paul answered absently, his mind still on his music. “Hmmm? What’s dodgy?” he asked, as he made another note in his notebook.

“You know…” John trailed off, looking at Paul’s lowered head expectantly, as if willing the other man to know what he was talking about.

Placing the pencil behind his hear as he closed the notebook, Paul finally looked up, exasperated expression on his face. “What are you going on about?” he asked with a sigh.

With a slight grimace, John replied, “You know. Pete.”

“Oh,” Paul answered, as realization quickly set in. He looked shamefaced for a brief moment before adopting an unconcerned facade. “That.”

Leaning back against the wall, John echoed, “Yeah. That”.

Silence fell between the two men again, each lost in their own thoughts until John spoke up.

“You think,” he began, with a sigh, “That we could’ve handled it a bit better?”

Shuffling a pile of papers by his feet, Paul kept his face hidden as he replied. “I don’t see what else we could’ve done,” he muttered just loud enough for John to hear. “Pete had to go. We all decided that together.”

Sighing, John ran a tired hand over his face. “I know,” he began, hesitantly. “It’s just… Well, maybe we should’ve done it ourselves instead of hiding behind Brian.”

Finally looking up, Paul fixed John with a pointed stare. “Well, Brian did give us that option,” he commented tightly, as though the subject currently being discussed wasn’t to his liking. “No one seemed all that keen to do it though, least of all myself,” Paul conceded. After a short pause he continued, “You always had the choice of doing it yourself, though.”

John simply sighed again. “I know, I know,” he said resignedly. “Although I’m glad not to have been the one to break the fucking news to him, there is a part of me that wishes that I had said something.” Running a hand through his hair as a pained look crossed his face, John continued. “I was closer to him than you and George, after all. God, I acted like a fucking coward!”

Muttering under his breath as he picked at the strings of his acoustic, Paul muttered to himself, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Hearing, Paul’s faint words, John narrowed his eyes, “What was that, son?” he asked.

Looking up with an innocent expression, Paul replied, “Nothing, John, love.”

John simply shook his head in response as the two returned to what they had been doing. Paul still busily making notes as John continued to stare off into space.

After another brief silence, John turned to Paul, “How are the changes coming along?” he asked curiously, as he gestured towards Paul’s notebook.

Chewing on the end of his pencil, Paul answered with a smile, “Not bad. That harmonica part of yours will fucking put it over the top.” Grimacing slightly, he continued, “Though I’m not too keen on singing it in the key that George wants me to sing it in. I just know that my fucking voice will crack during the chorus.”

John waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry too much about it,” he remarked. “You’ll be great. As always.”

Smiling, Paul tipped his head in John’s direction. “Ta, mate,” he replied in appreciation.

As Paul was about to return to what he was doing, John spoke again. “You know,” he mused, “I don’t remember working on this one all that much with you. I mean, I can vaguely recall hearing you play it a lot during our second trip to Hamburg and giving you some help with the middle eight. But other than that, nothing.”

Blushing, Paul ducked his head without giving an answer.

Looking slightly bemused, John tried again. “Did you write it on that trip?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Paul answered noncommittally. “I wrote it around that time.”

“Hmm, how do the words go again?” John asked himself, “Ahh, yes.” And after humming a few bars to himself, John started to sing.

_Love, love me do_   
_You know I love you_   
_I’ll always be true_   
_So please, love me do_   
_Oh, love me do_

_Love, love me do_   
_You know I love you_   
_I’ll always be true_   
_So please, love me do_   
_Oh, love me do_

With an amused look on his face, Paul stared at John as he made quite a big show of it, banging his fingers on the piano and singing in a falsetto voice, pulling out all the stops in true Lennon style. Laughing Paul started strumming along, accompanying John in a deep baritone, which elicited a cheeky grin from his mate.

_Someone to love_   
_Somebody new_   
_Someone to love_   
_Someone like you_

_Love, love me do_   
_You know I love you_   
_I’ll always be true_   
_So please, love me do_   
_Oh, love me do_

_Love, love me do_   
_You know I love you_   
_I’ll always be true_   
_So please, love me do_   
_Oh, love me do_   
_Yeah, love me do_   
_Oh, love me do_

With a flourish, the two ended the song in a fit of giggles, smiling at each other with eyes bright and cheeks flushed. The two held gazes for a while and world around them seemed to fall away, each caught up in their thoughts of the other. Then with an embarrassed cough, Paul turned away, his ears red as he went back to his guitar.

John, however, continued to stare at Paul, and after a moment’s silence he asked casually. “So,” he began. “Is the song about anyone in particular? Dot, perhaps?”

Paul looked up with a slightly disgusted face, “No,” he replied as he shook his head vehemently. “It’s not about Dot.”

“Then who?”

Silent, Paul looked at John intently, causing the other to squirm under the penetrating gaze.

After a while, Paul finally asked, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?” John asked, confusion colouring his voice.

“What happened in Hamburg during our second trip?”

Grinning, John replied, “Besides the usual heavy drinking, non-stop playing, and having our way with all the birds?”

“Yeah,” Paul replied with a roll of his eyes. “Besides all that.”

Shaking his head, John said, “Can’t say that I do.” Looking over at Paul curiously, he asked, “Why? What happened?”

Gazing at John for a second, Paul fell silent again, and then without a word, he went back to working on his song.

Perplexed, John stared at him for a minute, opening his mouth as though to say something, but thinking better of it, he simply shrugged and turned back to the piano.

After a few minutes, John felt a finger underneath his chin tip his face upwards. Before he could protest, Paul’s face descended to administer a bruising kiss; lips, teeth and tongue nibbling, licking, and sucking at John’s mouth. The older man’s eyes closed of their own volition as fire coursed through his veins and his heart practically beat out of his chest. He reached up and grabbed Paul’s collar, desperately trying to bring him closer, but Paul pulls away, and far too soon, the kiss ended.

No longer feeling Paul’s lips on his own, John’s eyes flew open, only to be met with his mate’s hazel eyes, lust flickering within their depths as he leaned in close and whispered against John’s mouth.

“Maybe that will refresh your memory.”

And without a backwards glance, Paul whipped around and after grabbing his leather jacket and guitar, quickly fled up the stairs, the sound of the slamming door ringing in the cavern as John continued to sit on the piano bench in a daze.


	8. Bad To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The sun rose over the horizon, chasing away the chill of nightfall as dark black and purple melted into pale pink, light orange and a dusty rose, infusing the cold earth with wonderful warmth. People sleepily stirred within their homes and ventured outside to go about their business, greeting their neighbours on the street in cheerful voices.

Perched high atop the streets, John stood by the large sweeping windows of his 12th floor hotel suite, cigarette in hand. Exhaling a stream of smoke as he peered outside, John grimaced as his eyes took in the people wandering about below, free to go about their business as they willed. With a sigh, John ground his still burning cigarette butt in a nearby ashtray as he moved away from the windows, letting the heavy drapes fall across the clear glass.

Tiredly, he staggered out of his bedroom and into the suite’s common area, flopping down onto a sofa as he rubbed his face. Looking about for a minute, he spotted a newspaper lying nearby, leaning over to quickly pick it up. His look of curiosity soon melted into one of irritation as he flipped through, only to find that each and every page was covered in Spanish text. With a growl, John crumpled the newspaper up before throwing it aside, scowling as he then reached for the TV remote. Misguided hope shining in his eyes, John clicked on the television, praying internally for something decent to be on the air.

However, that hope was soon dashed as every channel that he moved to was in Spanish. Growing increasingly agitated with each passing moment, John finally found a channel that was in English, but the reception was so poor that he might as well have been watching a channel in Spanish instead! Frustrated, he turned off the TV and flung the remote control across the room causing it to hit the opposite wall with a loud crack, splitting in two. With a sigh, John simply lay back on the couch with one arm flung across his eyes dramatically.

After a few minutes, Brian wandered out of his room, tying a robe closed around his middle as he set foot in the living room. Looking up, he did a double take as he caught sight of John’s prone figure, a look of concern flitting across his features. As his gaze swept the room, Brian noticed the newspaper in a crumpled up mess on the coffee table and the remote broken in two against the wall.

“I see that you’ve had a productive morning,” Brian commented wryly, as he walked towards John.

Not bothering to look up, John simply growled, “Piss off, Brian”

Shaking his head, Brian perched on the armrest of a nearby armchair, and answered with a slight smirk, “And good morning to you too, John.”

Scowling, John replied, “What part of piss off did you not understand, Bri?”

With a sigh, the older man asked tiredly, “Okay, what’s wrong this morning?”

“Everything’s in Spanish,” came the muffled response.

Smirking, “Well, yes,” Brian agreed. “I would expect that that would be the case in Spain.”

Opening one eye, John glared as he replied, “You’re not helping much, Brian.”

With a sigh, Brian stood up, making his way towards the phone as he spoke over his shoulder, “Well, there’s really nothing I can do about the TV,” he said. “But I call the front desk about getting an English language newspaper sent up.”

Sitting up, John rubbed his eyes, “Don’t bother. I should be working on songs or some such shit anyway.”

Looking hopefully over at John, Brian asked hesitantly, “Why don’t you come out with me today? We could do some sightseeing together.”

Not bothering to look up, John replied dismissively, “Rather not, I need to work.”

The older man’s face fell, and as he turned away from John he muttered loudly, “I don’t even know why you came with me. We haven’t done much together, unless you count what happened the other night…”

Whipping his head up, John glared at his manager. “I thought we agreed not to talk about that?” he ground out.

Turning around with his face flushed, Brian shot back. “We did no such thing,” he seethed. “You simply demanded that it never be mentioned again, I, however, never agreed to it.”

With a sigh, John tiredly rubbed his face, “Are we going to do this now?”

“Then when, John?” Brian bit out. “When we go back to England? In front of the other boys?”

Slowly rising from the sofa, John advanced on the older man, his voice low with barely suppressed anger. “Don’t you fucking ever mention this in front of the others,” John raged. “Or I swear Brian. No one is to ever find out, especially not Paul. You got it?”

Brian narrowed his eyes. “Why Paul especially?” he asked curiously.

“What?” John asked, face paling.

“You said especially not Paul. Why?”

“I never said that,” John lied, as he slowly backed away.

Advancing on the younger man, Brian pushed forward aggressively. “Don’t fuck with me, Lennon,” he snapped. Eyes widening slowly, he continued in hushed tones, “Is there something going on between you and Paul?”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Brian” John retorted, brandishing a fist. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

Face turning purple, Brian looked John straight in the eye, moving to take one step forward before changing his mind mid-step. Sneering, the older man, changed course as he spoke.

“You know what,” Brian ground out. “I’ve just about had it with you. This entire trip you’ve acted like a total asshole, more so than usual. I don’t even know why I asked you to come with me.” As he stalked back to his room, Brian threw out one final retort “I’ll be gone for the day, perhaps you could use this time apart to turn yourself into an agreeable human being.”

And with a slam of the door, the conversation was through.

John glared hatefully at the closed door for a few seconds before his shoulders sagged dejectedly. Making his way towards his room, the young man shut the door quietly behind him, plunging the room into total darkness, despite the fact that it was broad daylight outside for the heavy drapes at the windows obscured any and all light.

John dropped into a chair at the writing desk, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on the tabletop. With a sigh, the young man pulled a blank hotel notepad towards him, and with pen in hand, he stared at the wall in front of him as he began to tap it against the paper.

After a moment or two of inaction, John put pen to paper, a thoughtful look on his face as he scribbled something down. Dropping the pen, John’s eyes scanned over what he had just written and with a disgusted face, he tore the paper out of the notebook, ripped it in half, crumpled it into a ball and threw it to the floor. He repeated the process for the next ten minutes.

Write. Tear. Rip. Crumple. Throw.

Finally, John simply dropped the pen and paper all together as he lowered his head to the table and banged it against the wood repeatedly. After five minutes of that, the obviously distraught man stopped with a whimper and rested his forehead against the cool wood, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Standing up John paced around the room, and upon spying the telephone under a white shirt, he walked quickly towards it, a determined expression on his face. Throwing the shirt to the side, John picked up the receiver and dialed a number, looking wholly nervous as he bounced on the balls of his feet, the phone ringing in his ears.

The phone continued to ring and ring, until just as John was about to hang up, a man’s voice came over the line.

“Hello?”

But John remained silent, sagging against the wall as a sad look etched itself across his face.

“Hello?” the man repeated, his voice growing angry as the flow of words continued. “Fucking hell, it’s you again. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but if you don’t stop calling here…

“Paul, who is it?” a voice inquired faintly.

With a sigh, Paul answered to his unseen companion. “Have no clue, George,” he muttered. “They never say anything. Always calls and…”

John hung up with a sigh, running a shaky hand through his hair as he returned to the desk. After a minute or two of absolute motionlessness, John reached for his pen once again and began to write furiously.

He sat at his desk for lord knows how long, and soon the sound of the front door opening broke the silence. With a sigh, John stood up, and with notebook in hand; he walked out of the bedroom. In the living room, Brian stood by the closet, hanging up his coat before turning around and freezing, a weary look coming into his eyes as he came face to face with John.

Silently, the younger man walked forward and handed Brian his notepad, falling back slightly as the older man turned it over in his hands After a minute, Brian looked up, pinning John with a hard look.

“What’s this?” he asked curiously.

Sitting down on the armrest of a nearby wingchair, John shrugged. “I was working on that today,” he replied. “Thought you might want to give it to Billy to record.”

Startled, Brian looked down at the pages in front of him, and started to read aloud.

_If you ever leave me, I’ll be sad and blue_   
_Don’t you ever leave me, I’m so in love with you_

_The birds in the sky would be sad and lonely,_   
_If they knew that I’d lost my one and only,_   
_They’d be sad if you’re bad to me._

_The leaves on the trees would be softly sighin’_   
_If they heard form the breeze that you left me cryin’,_   
_They’d be sad, don’t be bad to me._

_But I know you won’t leave me ‘cos you told me so,_   
_And I’ve no intention of letting you go,_   
_Just as long as you let me know, you won’t be bad to me._

_So the birds in the sky won’t be sad and lonely,_   
_‘Cos they know that I got my one and only,_   
_They’ll be glad, you’re not bad to me._

_But I know you won’t leave me ‘cos you told me so,_   
_And I’ve no intention of letting you go,_   
_Just as long as you let me know, you won’t be bad to me._

_So the birds in the sky won’t be sad and lonely,_   
_‘Cos they know that I got my one and only,_   
_They’ll be glad, you’re not bad to me,_

_They’ll be glad, you’re not bad to me, to me, to me._

As the last words were read, Brian looked up with a small smile, “It’s quite good,” he commented. “You sure you don’t want to record it yourself?”

Shrugging again, John answered breezily. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Why don’t you show it to the boys first?” Brian pushed. “See what they think.”

“Brian,” John replied testily, as he reached out for the book. “If you don’t want it, just say so.”

Brian simply batted the younger man’s hand away.

“Oh, calm down,” he said exasperatedly. “I just wanted to make sure.” With a smile, Brian continued, “Thanks, John. I’m sure Billy will be grateful.” And with the notebook tucked under his arm, he walked to his room and shut the door quietly behind him.

Shaking his head, John returned to his room as well, closing the door behind him as he picked his guitar up from the floor. Sitting on the edge of his bed with guitar perched on his lap, John started to strum a few notes, images of a dark-haired lad with wide hazel eyes rising unbidden to his mind as he began to sing.

_If you ever leave me, I’ll be sad and blue Don’t you ever leave me, I’m so in love with you…_


	9. Hold Me Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

It always started out the same.

The two of them were in his father’s old house, sitting cramped together on that small sofa directly in front of the window. John always liked it there best. The light was perfect and there was always a delightful breeze coming in from the garden outside, bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass and the lightest hint of the sea. He always said it reminded him of trips taken down to the seashore during the summer hols with his cousins.

Guitars would always be at hand, perched on their knees, as they looked at each other with bright eyes and mirroring grins, joyful laughter ringing out in the room.

Then Paul would lean forward and kiss John square on the lips, their guitars would slide to the floor, and then John’s arms would be around him as they sunk into the cushions, John’s lithe frame lying directly on top of his, as the kiss grew heated with each passing moment…

It was at that point that Paul always woke up.

Panting hard, his heart beating erratically, Paul sat up, swinging his legs over the bed as he lowered his head to his hands. Fingers closed convulsively around errant locks of hair, almost ripping the strands out in frustration.

It would, of course, be a travesty if he ever went through with it, for his hair, along with his music, was really the key to his success.

Body shaking slightly, Paul stood, and started to pace around the small attic room, images from his dream playing in his head as if on instant replay.

John’s lips on his. John’s arms around him. The two fitting together as though they were meant to be…

It fucking frightened him how right the whole thing had felt.

Ever since their second trip to Hamburg, Paul’s dreams had been plagued by these images. Taunting him. Arousing him. Making him think of things he never thought he would in relation to his best mate.

His  **male**  best mate.

And kissing him again at the Cavern really had not helped matters, though Paul tried his hardest to forget that incident and the fact that he had been the one to make the first move that time.

Snatching a carton from his desk, Paul shakily withdrew a cigarette, wasting no time in lighting it and inhaling the nicotine-laced smoke into his lungs as he dropped into a straight-backed chair. Eyes closed, Paul attempted to regain control over himself, but it was to no avail. The dream was in his head, and would remain there until he did something about it.

Shaking his head, Paul reached for the telephone, lifting the receiver in his hand as he contemplated his next move. With a quick glance towards the clock, he began to dial, toe tapping against the floor as he listened to the phone ring through the line.

“Hello?” a voice answered, tiredness slurring the word.

“Hi George,” Paul answered, with a look of regret. “Did I wake you?”

A pause soon followed, before the other man replied.

“Well, seeing as how it’s almost fucking 3 AM, I’d say that yeah. You did.” George replied crankily.

Paul winced at the tone. “Sorry, George. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

The younger man sighed before asking, “What’s wrong, Paul?”

With a hasty shake of his head, “Nothing,” Paul quickly replied. “Don’t worry about it, mate. Just go back to sleep.”

“Paul, fucking hell, man,” George snapped. “Something must be wrong if you called me this late!” Voice softening, he continued, “What’s up?”

As another sigh was ripped from his lips, Paul muttered, “I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Been having some pretty dodgy dreams.”

“Oh,” George said curiously “What about?”

Blushing, Paul replied nervously. “Oh, can’t really remember them once I wake up.”

“Have you tried just forcing yourself to sleep again?”

Leaning his head back, Paul replied tiredly, “I’ve tried, but every time I close my eyes, I just keep seeing that bloody dream in my mind.”

A short silence followed Paul’s words, before George spoke, a note of suspiciousness in his voice. “I thought you said that you didn’t remember it,” he replied.

With a cough, Paul backtracked quickly. “Right,” he replied, with a grimace. “I mean, I keep feeling the way that I did in my dream, and it keeps me from going back to sleep.”

Sounding unconvinced George spoke. “Right,” he drawled. “Well, what feeling is that then?”

“I don’t know,” Paul sighed. “Fear, I suppose.”

“Well, what have you got to be scared of?”

The first thing that came to mind was his growing feelings for and attraction to John, but that wasn’t exactly something that he could tell George. So, he lied. “You know,” he began. “The band and making it big, and all that rubbish.”

“Well,” George said in a comforting tone. “We’re all scared about that shite, mate. Just don’t let it effect you so bloody much.”

Sighing, Paul let his head fall forward onto his arms as he replied, “I know, George. I know.”

A brief silence fell between the two, as each thought of what to say next, but Paul soon broke the silence with a forced yawn.

“I should probably try to get some sleep,” he said, still yawning wide. “I don’t want to start falling asleep in the studio tomorrow. Sorry for waking you up George, and thanks. For everything.”

“No worries,” the younger man replied graciously. Then in a mock angry tone he continued, “Just don’t make a bloody habit out of it.” Paul chuckled softly, “I won’t. Night, mate.”

“Goodnight, Paul.”

And with a sigh, Paul disconnected the call.

Grinding his cigarette in the ashtray, Paul followed it with another. He looked down at the desk and his eyes immediately fell on his notebook. With another sigh, the tired young man pulled it towards him as he fished for a pen in his desk drawer. Without thinking, Paul started to write furiously, words flying out of the tip of his pen as he tried to get all of his thoughts out on paper before they were lost.

Once done, he sat back and read them over, gulping nervously as the weight of what he had written hit him full force. Notebook in hand, Paul walked over to his bed, picking up his guitar on the way and upon settling himself on his bed, started to pick out a tune to go with his lyrics, singing the words softly under his breath.

_It feels all right now_   
_Hold me tight_   
_Tell me I’m the only one_   
_And then I might_   
_Never be the lonely one_

_So hold me tight_   
_Tonight, tonight_   
_It’s you,_   
_You, you, you, oo_

_Hold me tight_   
_Let me go on loving you_   
_Tonight, tonight_   
_Making love to only you_

_So hold me tight_   
_Tonight, tonight_   
_It’s you,_   
_You, you, you, oo_

_Don’t know what it means to hold you tight_   
_Being here alone tonight with you_

_It feels all right now_   
_Hold me tight_   
_Tell me I’m the only one_   
_And then I might_   
_Never be the lonely one_

_So hold me tight_   
_Tonight, tonight_   
_It’s you,_   
_You, you, you, oo_

_Hold me tight_   
_Let me go on loving you_   
_Tonight, tonight_   
_Making love to only you_

_So hold me tight_   
_Tonight, tonight_   
_It’s you._


	10. I Want to Hold Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Comfortably furnished with every instrument imaginable in various parts of the room, the Ashers’ basement was unlike any other. Instead of being left to collect dust and become home to any number of vermin, the basement was rather well kept, comfortable sofas and thick rugs giving the room a very homey feeling. It was where music lessons were taught, its location making it the perfect spot for music to be played very loudly and very badly.

Currently, only the piano was in use, Paul’s dark head bent over the keys as he hammered out the beginning bars of a tune, singing softly to himself as the song came into being. Looking up at the clock on a nearby table, his smile faltered slightly, a frown marring his features for a second before he shook his head and returned to the task at hand.

After a minute or two descending footsteps were heard and John’s head appeared around the corner, a sheepish grin on his face as he stepped into the basement.

“Hi Macca,” the late arrival greeted cheerfully, ruffling Paul’s hair as he slid onto the piano bench beside his mate.

Frowning, Paul batted John’s hand away as he smoothed his hair down and moved over to make space before turning to his mate with a scowl. “You’re an hour late,” he grumbled.

“I am not!” John exclaimed indignantly. “I’m only 10 minutes late!”

Paul simply looked over at him with one eyebrow raised.

After a minute of staring back defiantly, John relented. “Okay, fine,” he huffed. “I’m an hour late. But I have a very good excuse.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Paul replied, as he leaned against the piano, arms crossed over his chest.

“Well, you see,” the older man began, thinking wildly for an appropriate excuse. “I was getting into my car, when a rabid dog jumped out from behind a, umm, mailbox. And proceeded to chase me around the house, I finally escaped, when a huge alien spaceship came hovering above me, and these two little green men in silver outfits beamed down and asked me what my favourite colour was and…

With a raised eyebrow, Paul looked over at John, amusement in his voice when he asked, “Was that the best you could do?”

“What?” John, exclaimed in surprise. “That was very believable!”

“Right,” Paul drawled, unconvinced. “So, tell me. Why are you really late?”

“Oh, fine,” the older man grumbled. “I overslept. Happy?”

Grinning, Paul patted John on the hand, his hand lingering longer than needed. “Now, that sounds like the John I know and love.”

At Paul’s words, both fell silent and the younger man quickly moved his hand away. A touch of nervousness hovered in the air, before John cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“So, umm,” John stammered. “Have you made any progress with the song since yesterday?”

Shaking his head, Paul answered, “Not really, just been playing the same bit over and over again.”

Businesslike, John straightened his back as he looked over at the notebook that lay on top of the piano. “Well, what do we have so far then?”

Paul pushed notebook closer to John, and the two positioned their hands over the piano, banging away simultaneously, as they began to sing.

_I’ll tell you something_   
_I think you’ll understand_   
_When I say that something_   
_I want to hold your hand_   
_I want to hold your hand_   
_I want to hold your hand_

_Oh please say to me_   
_You’ll let me be your man_   
_And please say to me_   
_You’ll let me hold your hand_   
_Now, let me hold your hand_   
_I want to hold your hand_

As their voices faded away, both men looked down at the notebook, heads close together with twin contemplative looks on their faces. Absently, Paul played random chords, trying out different sounds, as John took out a pen and started doodling in the corner of the page, thinking.

“Wait!” John suddenly exclaimed.

Lifting his head, Paul looked over at John. “What?” he asked inquisitively.

“Play that again!” John said excitedly, as he waved his hand towards the

Fingers hitting the keys, the younger man asked, “This one?”

“No,” John said, “The one before that!”

“This?”

“No, no, no!” John cried out again. “The one after that!”

“Oh!” Paul remarked, comprehension dawning. “This one!”

“Yes, perfect!” John said, excitedly. “That’ll fit quite nicely.”

Pulling his notebook out of John’s hands, Paul made a quick note before sitting back and glancing at his partner sideways.

“Now what?” he asked, continuing to play the chosen chord over and over again.

John hummed to self, “I want to hold your hand, and I want to hold your hand… Ummm…

Picking up the song, Paul added, “And when I touch you…”

“I feel happy, inside,” John continued, excitement punctuating every word.

Grinning, Paul looked over at John as he sang the next line that came to his head, “It’s such a feeling, that my love…”

Putting his arm around Paul’s shoulders, John sang, “I can’t hide. I can’t hide. I can’t hide!”

Looking over at each other, two grinned before their close proximity causing a silence to fall between them that crackled with tension. The two men looked at each other for a minute, each moving in closer imperceptibly, but at the last minute they turned away. The camaraderie of the minute before replaced by the uncomfortable feeling that always seemed to lurk beneath the surface.

Clearing his throat, Paul spoke in a brisk manner,” Well, I think that works our rather well, don’t you?” his words cutting through the silence.

“Yeah,” John agreed quickly. “So, shall we call it a day?”

Looking startled, Paul turned towards his mate. “But you just got here,” he answered incredulously.

John looked at the clock, “Paul,” he responded with a smile. “I’ve been here for nearly 3 hours already.”

“You have?”

John smirked, “Yeah.”

“Oh. all right then” Paul replied, disappointment coming through his voice. “I guess I’ll walk you out.”

Both men stood at once, placing their bodies flush against each other, causing John to quickly back up as Paul brushed by him. However, before Paul could move further away, John grabbed the younger man’s hand, causing him to stop suddenly and look down at John’s hand on his wrist, before looking up with undisguised fear in his eyes.

John looked down as well, before meeting his friend’s eyes. Taking a deep breath, he said softly, “So, I’ve been thinking…”

Swallowing his nervousness, Paul smirked, “Should I alert the presses?”

John simply rolled his eyes, “Very funny. Anyway…”

Grinning, Paul interrupted again. “I’ve always thought so.”

With an irritated look, John glared back. “Will you let me finish?” he groused.

Grinning cheekily, Paul waved his hand gesturing the older man to go ahead.

“Anyway, I’ve been thinking,” John paused, waiting for another interruption. When none came, he continued. “That maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“What wouldn’t be so bad?” Paul asked curiously.

“Us.”

Playing dumb, Paul looked over slyly. “Us what?” he asked.

John scowled, “You know…”

“No, I don’t.”

“Fine,” the older man snapped “If you don’t, far be it for me to tell you.”

In a huff, John started to walk away, but Paul quickly grabbed him around the waist, and with a quick turn has his mate pinned against the piano, as he lowered his head to give John a soft, brief kiss. Breaking apart, Paul rested his forehead against John’s.

Softly, Paul whispered with a smile, “I don’t think it’d be so bad either.”

“Huh,” John said with an answering grin. “Imagine that.”

Suddenly, Paul laughed softly.

“What?” John asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

“You know,” Paul began between laughs. “This is the first kiss we’ve shared where no one threw up or ran away afterwards.”

Chuckling softly, John shook his head. “I think you might be right.”

A comfortable silence fell between the two as they continued to lean into each other.

After a while, John finally spoke up, his voice soft in the quiet room. “I didn’t forget, you know.”

“Forget what?”

“Hamburg.” John said simply.

Paul’s eyes widened comically as he replied, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” John admitted, wryly. “I didn’t even know what to think myself. I tried to convince myself that I was drunk and horny, and that it meant nothing more. But then when you kissed me at the Cavern, I knew that I couldn’t keep running anymore.”

Smirking, Paul replied, “You do realize that it’s been quite a while since that kiss, right?”

“Hey!” John exclaimed indignantly. “I had to think hard about this!”

“Dear sweet, Johnny,” Paul cooed with a shake of his head. “Thinking has always been hard for you, hasn’t it?”

Laughing, John shoved Paul playfully. “Piss off!”

With a sobering look, Paul finally asked seriously, “So, now what?”

“I don’t really know,” John replied sheepishly. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Me neither,” Paul echoed.

“Let’s just take this one day at a time, eh?” John said hopefully, as he wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist.

“Sounds like a plan,” Paul replied, as he leaned into John’s embrace.

With a sigh, John leaned back and gave Paul a regretful look. “I should get going,” he said softly.

Disappointment colouring his features, Paul pouted playfully before answering, “We’re all still getting together at the studio tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“All right” Paul replied. “See you later, then?”

Simultaneously, the two leaned forward and they shared a soft kiss, the two men smiling at each other shyly before John turned and walked out of the basement.

Grinning to himself, Paul sat down at the piano, fingers finding the appropriate chords as he started to play the song from the top.


	11. If I Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The hotel room was a veritable mess. Open suitcases littered the floors while every other flat surface was home to half-empty glasses of scotch and coke and overflowing ashtrays. The curtains were drawn and the windows shut, but the sounds of the fans outside on the street below could still be heard. A cacophonous, non-stop shrill of “We love the Beatles, oh yes we do. We love the Beatles…” that continued well into the night.

However, the two Beatles hidden away in the hotel room, lying amidst white sheets and a maroon duvet, had not a care in the world.

Head slightly angled against headboard, with fluffy pillows behind his neck, John lay on the bed, cigarette dangling from lips, as an opened notebook lay by his side. As the cigarette dwindled to nothing, he leant to the side towards the nightstand and crushed the lightly smouldering butt in an ashtray before lying on his back again. His hand reached for the notebook blindly as he tried not to awaken the person who lay by his side, dark head pillowed comfortably on his bare chest.

Once he grabbed hold of the battered old notebook, he brought it up to his face, eyes squinting in the scant light to read the words written there, uncapping the pen that was clipped to the pages to make a note or two in the margins, the scratching of his pen inadvertently waking his companion.

“Mmmm, Johnny,” moaned Paul, as he burrowed his face deeper into John’s chest.

Smiling softly, John replied, “Shh. Paulie. Go back to sleep, love.”

Flopping onto his back, Paul cracked one bleary eye open, as he looked over at the older man. “Whatcha doing?” he asked sleepily, as he leaned over to run his hand over John’s bare chest. The touch of his heated fingertips causing goose bumps to rise along the older man’s skin.

John closed his eyes, as he mumbled, “Just writing something down.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Paul asked, aghast. “Because I’m knackered.”

Smirking, John looked down at Paul and with a grin replied, “Ta, love”.

With a derisive snort, Paul dropped his hand from John’s chest, and ran it through his own shaggy hair as me moved the dark locks away from his face. “Someone’s full of himself,” he muttered under his breath, sounding slightly amused.

“Yeah,” John began as he lowered his head to whisper into Paul’s ear, “Well, someone was full of me just a little while ago.”

The feel of John’s breath against his ear, caused Paul to shiver slightly as well, but with a stern look, he simply looked over at John and is treated with a lecherous grin.

Shaking his head in amusement, Paul laughed softly, ‘Perv.”

“You know you love it.”

Yawning, Paul stretched his body, arms over his head as he responded, “Just keep telling yourself that, love.”

With a smile, John said softly, “Go back to sleep, Paulie.”

“Mmmhm,” the younger man answered, his eyes already closing. “You’ll be here when I wake up?”

Kissing him on the forehead, John promised, “I will.”

With a sleepy moan, Paul replied, “Goodnight, Johnny.”

“Good night, love.”

Turning over onto his side, Paul wrapped his arm tightly around John’s chest, and once again burrowed his face into John’s chest, placing a sleepy kiss on his love’s collarbone before dozing off again.

For a while, John simply stared down at Paul, at their tangled bodies, and a smile curled up his lips, his hand coming up to gently run his fingers along Paul’s shoulder and bare arm before turning away and bringing his notebook up to his eyes again. With a soft sigh, the older man scanned over the words again, mouthing the words slowly as he tapped a rhythm against the pages.

_If I fell in love with you_   
_Would you promise to be true_   
_And help me understand_   
_‘Cause I’ve been in love before_   
_And I’ve found that love is more_   
_That just holding hands._

_If I gave my heart to you_   
_I must be sure from the very start_   
_That you would love me more than her_

_If I trust in you, oh please_   
_Don’t run and hide,_   
_If I love you too, oh please_   
_Don’t hurt my pride like her_

_‘Cause I couldn’t stand the pain_   
_And I would be sad_   
_If our new love was in vain_

_So I hope you see that I_   
_Would love to love you_   
_And that she will cry_   
_When she learns we are two_

_‘Cause I couldn’t stand the pain_   
_And I would be sad_   
_If our new love was in vain_

_So I hope you see that I_   
_Would love to love you_   
_And that she will cry_   
_When she learns we are two_   
_If I fell in love with you_

With a sigh, John finally leaned over and placed the notebook on the nightstand before softly rolling Paul over onto his other side. He then reached towards the foot of the bed to pull the covers over their bodies, tucking the edges of the comforter under his cold feet. With a sleepy moan, John turned on his side and threw one arm around Paul’s waist, burying his face in the crook of the younger man’s neck and joining his lover in slumber.


	12. I’ve Just Seen a Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The hotel room was quiet, a little too quiet in fact, and not at all the way it should be. Usually, the hotel suite bustled with activity with phones ringing off their hooks, the television and radio blaring simultaneously, and people of all walks of life wandering around as though they owned the joint.

At the moment, however, things were blissfully silent. The crowds had departed, the phones had stopped ringing, and someone had finally taken the time to turn the damn television and radio off!

In the midst of this unnatural quiet, sat Paul, head buried in what suspiciously looked like an issue of 16 Magazine, tumbler of scotch and coke held in one hand. Snickering to himself, Paul read the enlightened articles about dressing like an actress, or the deep interview with the one and only Ricky Nelson. Flipping page after page of useless drivel, he suddenly stopped on a glossy pin-up of John; black hat perched on his head as he smirked mischievously into the camera. Smiling softly at the image, Paul’s fingers gently caressed the face, fingertips gently tracing the curve of John’s jaw and the line of his lips.

Suddenly, the door to the suite flew open, and Paul frantically threw the magazine to the other side of the couch as he crossed and uncrossed his legs in an attempt at a casual pose, smiling nervously at Ringo as he stepped into the room.

“Hey, Paul,” Ringo greeted cheerfully, as he dropped into an armchair across from the seated Beatle.

Smiling tightly, Paul nodded in greeting as he gulped down a mouthful of scotch and coke, coughing convulsively as he nearly choked on the liquid.

As Paul started to cough and sputter, an alarmed Ringo jumped up from his seat and pounded his mate on the back. After a minute, Paul’s coughs subsided, and he laid back into the cushions with his hand on his chest as he took steadying breaths. Looking concerned, Ringo sat beside Paul, looking at him with eyes full of worry.

“You okay, mate?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Paul wheezed in response, still coughing lightly.

Worry still evident in his voice, Ringo started to get up as he asked, “Do you want me to get you a glass of water or something?”

Waving his hand in dismissal, Paul replied in a now normal voice. “No, no. I’m fine,” he protested. “Thanks, though.”

Sitting back down, Ringo settled into the cushions as he said. “Don’t mention it.” Looking around curiously and noting the emptiness of the suite, Ringo asked, “So, what are you doing here all alone and where the hell is everyone anyway?”

Shrugging noncommittally, Paul answered, “I think Brian took his entire staff out to lunch, and I thought that John and George were with you,” he finished with a questioning look.

“George was but John left us a long time ago,” Ringo related. “I was under the impression that he had come back here.”

Paul quickly covered up a look of disappointment before answering. “No, he didn’t. I’ve just been sitting here, catching up on some reading.”

Ringo turned to the side, picking up the teenybopper rag with one eyebrow raised.

“Reading, huh?” he asked, amused.

Paul laughed. “Well, you know how much I love keeping up to date on all celebrity gossip. After all,” he continued with a cheeky grin. “How could I live with myself if I didn’t know how to curl my hair like Hayley Mills?”

Ringo chuckled as he started to flip through the magazine himself. “Right you are. I’m surprised that we’re not on the cover this week. Haven’t we been on here for the past two months?”

With a horrified look, Paul replied “We must be slipping. Letting people like Ricky Nelson get the better of us.”

Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Ringo remarked, “We’re going to have to do something about that. Hey,” Ringo suddenly exclaimed. “Now this is a pretty picture,” as he held up the picture of John that Paul had been admiring.

Blushing, Paul quickly dropped his eyes. “Yeah, it’s quite nice,” he stammered.

Ringo, however, didn’t notice. “For someone who loathes all the picture taking that our job entails, he certainly does take some nice ones.”

Paul remained silent, as he continued to look at the picture before them.

Ringo continued flipping through. “And what do you know? The rest of us aren’t even in this issue.” With a sad shake of his head, Ringo continues. “I’m going to have to lodge a complaint. However will I sleep without Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr pin-ups to round out my collection?

Paul rolled eyes, “Yeah, it’s a travesty for sure.”

As another silence fell, Ringo leaned back as he got more comfortable, flipping through the magazine as Paul grew increasingly contemplative.

“Ringo,” Paul finally said quietly. “When did you know that Mo was the one?”

Putting the magazine aside, Ringo looked up. “I don’t rightly know,” he replied truthfully. “I just know that it felt right to hold her in my arms. Like she fit perfectly, you know?”

“But couldn’t you find someone else that would feel right in your arms as well?” Paul asked again, as he turned his body to face Ringo. “It could just be a size thing.”

“I suppose,” Ringo replied with a shrug. “I just know that it felt like she belonged and when I’d look into her face, I knew that that was the only one that I’d ever want to look at for the rest of my life.”

Nodding in understanding, Paul said, “Yeah, I get that.”

Eyes twinkling, Ringo teased, “Why? Planning on popping the question to Jane?”

Paul vehemently shook his head. “No,” he said with a short laugh. “I was just wondering.”

“Speaking of Mo, I should give her a call,” Ringo said, as he looked at his watch. Standing up, he looked back at Paul and asked, “You want to go out for a drink once I’m done?”

“Sure, mate.”

With a nod, Ringo turned and walked into the room he was sharing with Paul, closing the door quietly behind him.

Sighing, Paul stood and walked over to the window, cautiously moving a corner of the curtain to peer outside. A huge roar from the fans erupted and Paul waved back weakly as he let the curtain fall back again. Sighing, he tapped a cigarette out of the box on the coffee table, his fingers curling around a crumpled piece of paper as he searched his pockets for a lighter. Sitting down on the armrest of the sofa, he smoothed the paper out on his knee, shaking his head to himself as he read the words, smirking at all the male pronouns being crossed out with female ones substituted in.

_I’ve just seen a face_   
_I can’t forget the time or place where we just met_   
_He’s she’s just the boygirl for me_   
_And I want all the world to see we’ve met_   
_Mm mm mm mm mm mm_

_Had it been another day_   
_I might have looked the other way_   
_And I’d have never been aware_   
_But as it is I’ll dream of him her tonight_   
_La la la la la la_

_Falling, yes I am falling_   
_And he she keeps calling_   
_me back again_

_I have never known the like of this_   
_I’ve been alone and I have missed things_   
_And kept out of sight_   
_For other boys girls were never quite like this_   
_Da da da da da da_

_Falling, yes I am falling_   
_And he she keeps calling_   
_Me back again_   
_Yeah, pa pa pa pa_

_Falling, yes I am falling_   
_And he she keeps calling_   
_me back again_

_I’ve just seen a face_   
_I can’t forget the time or place where we just met_   
_He’s she’s just the boy girl for me_   
_And I want all the world to see we’ve met_   
_Mm mm mm mm mm mm_

_Falling, yes I am falling_   
_And he she keeps calling_   
_Me back again_

_Falling, yes I am falling_   
_And she keeps calling_   
_Me he back again_   
_Oh, falling, yes I am falling_   
_And he she keeps calling_   
_Me back again._

With a shake of his head, Paul folded the paper up carefully and returned it to his pocket, blowing out a stream of smoke as he waited for Ringo to rejoin him.


	13. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

_He won’t even look at me._

These were the words that repeated themselves in John’s head, an endless refrain that caused an insurmountable amount of pain.

Leaning against the wall, his shoulders hunched, John watched George and Ringo laugh amongst themselves, giggling and punching each other playfully as they played the last few bars of the songs that they had been rehearsing. Carefree and happy. That’s how John and Paul usually were, teasing each other, ruffling each other’s hair, maybe even grasping hands tightly when they were sure that no one was looking their way.

But not today.

No, today they were on different sides of the studio, and though only a few feet separated them, it felt like so much more. With a pained look etched into his face, John watched Paul as he avoided looking his way, the younger man bent over nearly double as he fiddled with the knobs on his bass, focused so intently on his task that he failed to notice the presence of anyone and anything around him.

John knew that that was his main intention.

And as much as John wanted Paul to look his way even once, to give him one of those little smiles of his, John would, and could, do nothing because he knew that he did not deserve an ounce of the other man’s attention. Not his smile, his touch, or his kiss.

Not after what had happened the previous night.

They had lain as one, a sweaty tangled mess amidst the white cotton sheets, bare chests pressed together, whispering and laughing over the silliest things as they were often wont to do. John had one hand wrapped in Paul’s dark hair, his fingers gently combing through the longish strands, moving them gently away from the younger man’s eyes, and when he looked down into the hazel orbs, he froze.

What he saw scared the shit out of him.

Face paling, John had quickly disentangled himself, grabbing his trousers from the foot of the bed and pulling them on before standing upright. Paul had looked up at him, concern and confusion on his face as he took in his lover’s erratic behaviour.

“What’s wrong, love?” Paul had asked in concern as he began to sit up.

“Nothing,” John snapped, exchanging the look of fear with one of anger.

Rolling his eyes, Paul asked, “Okay, what’s got your knickers in a twist?”

“Nothing, all right” John ground out. “Just fucking leave me alone.”

“Did something just happen?” the younger man asked in confusion. “Because seriously, I’m lost right now.”

“Well, that wouldn’t be the first time now would it?” John snapped back.

Startled, Paul looked up, irritation colouring his features. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, forcing himself to remain calm.

“Nothing,” John retorted, as he fastened the top button on his trousers.

“You know what? Fine,” Paul ground out, his anger mirroring his lover’s. “Sometimes I don’t know why I put up with your moods. I’m out of here.”

Paling slightly, John ignored the gnawing feeling inside of him as he pushed on. “That’s a good idea,” he bit out. “The best you’ve had yet. And maybe you should stay gone.”

Startled, Paul’s head whipped towards John, his wide eyes painfully boring into John’s. “What?” he gasped out in surprise.

“You heard me,” John snapped. “Don’t come back!”

Standing, Paul moved forward, his arms spread wide in a placating gesture. “John, what the fuck is going on with you?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly.

“Nothing, just nothing” the older man replied, as he started to back away. Running a trembling hand through his hair, John continued, willing his voice to stay steady. “Just what the fuck are we doing? Fucking around like a bunch of fucking queers. I wasn’t like this before, you know.”

Face flushing and his voice holding a note of incredulity Paul said, “You think I was? You think I want to be this way?” Throwing his hands up in the air, Paul turned around as he raised his voice. “I have a girlfriend! A fucking gorgeous girlfriend, but I can’t think of anyone but you, you bloody prick!”

“Yeah, well, maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore then” John replied coldly as a voice inside him begged, Don’t do this. Don’t fucking do this.

Paul’s shoulders tensed as he fell silent. “You don’t mean that,” he replied quietly as he turned around.

Eyes cold, John snapped back, “You’re damn right I do.” The look of distress that had been so painfully etched into Paul’s face was suddenly wiped clear and in its place was a completely blank look. “Fine,” Paul replied evenly, his voice devoid of emotion. “If that’s how you feel I’m out of here.”

Paul grabbed his clothes from the foot of the bed and quickly stalked out of the room. After a few minutes John heard the front door slam closed and a car peal out of the driveway. John then fell to the bed, a trembling mess.

What had scared him so much was the look he had seen in Paul’s eyes.

Trust. Contentment. Love.

And that last one just made everything so real. And in true John Lennon fashion, he freaked out.

He knew that he was in love with Paul, and had been for quite some time, but he had not said the words yet. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Paul had felt the same way until last night. And he knew then that he couldn’t deny the seriousness of their relationship any longer. He knew that he could either take the next step or shoot it all to hell.

He chose the latter.

But now, sitting here across from Paul, he felt like he had made the biggest fucking mistake of his life, but he had no idea how to fix it.

So, they continued to work, neither saying a word the entire day.

As soon the session was over, Paul packed up his gear and hurried out without a word to anyone in the room. George and Ringo looked after him worriedly, and then turned on John as one.

“Do you know what’s wrong with him today?” George demanded, eyes wide with concern.

“Yeah, he didn’t say a word all day,” Ringo said, as he twirled a drumstick in his right hand. Smirking slightly he continued, “And usually he’s as bossy as hell.”

Turning away from the pair, John, muttered “No clue.”

The two exchanged a look, before George said in false cheer, “So, long day, huh? Anyone up for a visit to the pub?”

“Gear, you know I’m always down for that.” Ringo crowed as he threw his drumsticks down. Turning to John he asked, “You coming, Johnny?”

With a quick look up John gave them a tight smile as he nodded his assent. “Yeah, just give me a minute,” he said. “I’ll follow you down.”

“Right, mate” George replied.

And with a mock salute, the two goose-stepped their way out, the sound of their laughter ringing in the studio as the door slammed shut.

John, with a sigh, undid the shoulder strap of his guitar as he lowered it to the floor. As he opened the hard shell guitar case, the tired man was surprised to find a folded piece of white paper lodged inside. His surprise increased tenfold after he unfolded it, only to find Paul’s writing moving across the page. His eyes widening, John began to read.

_We said our good-byes_  
 _The night before_  
 _Love was in your eyes_  
 _The night before_  
 _Now today I find_  
 _You have changed your mind_  
 _Treat me like you did the night before_

_Were you telling lies?_  
 _The night before_  
 _Was I so unwise_  
 _The night before_  
 _When I held you near_  
 _You were so sincere_  
 _Treat me like you did the night before, yeah_

_Last night is the night I will remember you by_  
 _When I think of things we did_  
 _It makes me wanna cry_

_We said our good-byes_  
 _The night before_  
 _Love was in your eyes_  
 _The night before_  
 _Now today I find_  
 _You have changed your mind_  
 _Treat me like you did the night before, yes_

_When I held you near_  
 _You were so sincere_  
 _Treat me like you did the night before_

_Last night is the night I will remember you by_  
 _When I think of things we did_  
 _It makes me wanna cry_

_Were you telling lies?_  
 _The night before_  
 _Was I so unwise_  
 _The night before_  
 _When I held you near_  
 _You were so sincere_  
 _Treat me like you did the night before_  
 _Like the night before_

Sitting down on a stool heavily, the paper slid from John’s fingers as he buried his head in his arms.


	14. I’m Looking Through You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Though the front lawn was littered with the spoils of major renovations, it still looked lovely in the early morning light, the sun’s rays playing upon the newly whitewashed walls and giving the home a surrounding halo. Newly planted trees rose up from freshly turned earth as colourful flowers dotted the surrounding landscape, the scent of the new garden working as hard as it could to mask the smells of petrol and coal from the outside world.

Paul walked slowly around his new property the guitar in his hands swinging with every step as his dog Martha followed closely at his heels, the canine pawing and sniffing at every burrow and hill, surveying the land as a king might survey his kingdom. Paul should be ecstatic, his mind filled with plans on how to design his new home and how to furnish it, however, his mind was occupied with other, more pressing matters.

His mind was occupied with the subject of acid.

“You should really try it,” George had said, his eyes glassy as a beatific smile graced his features.

“It’s the wildest fucking trip you could ever imagine, mate. You just don’t know what you’re missing. Please, love. Just this once,” had said John, ashen face and dazed eyes looking up at him pleadingly.

Day in and day out, John had begged him. Had nearly gotten down on his hands and knees to plead with him. He just wanted Paul to explore the new world that he and George had inadvertently fallen into. To share things with him. To become closer than they ever had been before.

But Paul refused.

Every time the four of them were together, John and George retreated behind a multi-coloured curtain of sensory overload. Every sound and sight rendering them into balls of excitable energy. In turns flitting about the room as if held aloft by a single string or laying about as still as death.

However, Paul though that they were rather worse when they weren’t under the effects of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.

Sitting together, cross-legged on the plush carpet in George’s home, they spouted philosophies and theories that they believed had never before been discussed, acid having turned them into the deep intellectuals that they had taken the piss out off when they were younger. They’d talk for hours on end, huddled together in a corner with their heads close, ignoring everyone around them.

When their pleading had had no effect, they turned derisive, mocking those who wouldn’t partake.

“Sorry, Paul,” John would say with a smirk as he and George exchanged a meaningful look. “You just wouldn’t understand.”

And then they’d return to whatever it was they were so engrossed in, turning their backs on him simultaneously in hurtful dismissal.

Ringo seemed to be coming around to their way of thinking, but Paul continued to hold out, and he feared that it was costing him his relationship with John. And ultimately that scared Paul more than that the unknown effects of acid itself.

Wandering behind the house, Paul walked into a solitary man’s paradise. Lush green grass spread as far the eye could see and a tree, its boughs so low that they seemed to touch the ground, stood majestically in the far left corner.

Giving Martha a quick pat on the head, Paul moved towards the tree, and with a quick look around crawled under the leaves. He immediately found himself under a dark canopy, the kind under which one could crawl and lose themselves for hours. Settling back against the tree trunk, Paul absently watched the boughs sway languidly in the breeze, the sunlight filtering in between and bathing the inside with an ethereal light.

Moving his guitar to his lap, Paul started to strum a lilting tune, nothing in particular, just something that he felt captured the moment. A moment of serenity that he had not experienced in quite some time.

Well, not counting the nights spent in John’s arms, that is.

With an ill chosen minor chord, Paul stopped the music as he leant his head back, the rough bark cutting into his scalp as the guitar slid to his side. With a sigh, the tired young man closed his eyes, John’s face interspersed with lyrics and chords floating in his mind as he tried to rein in his emotions.

_I’m looking through you_   
_Where did you go?_   
_I thought I knew you_   
_What did I know…?_

Eyes snapping open, Paul quickly snatched up his guitar, words and music flowing out of him at a rate that it never had before.

_You don’t look different_   
_But you have changed_   
_I’m looking through you_   
_You’re not the same_

_Your lips are moving_   
_I cannot hear_   
_You voice is soothing_   
_But the words aren’t clear_   
_You don’t sound different_   
_I’ve learned the game I’m looking through you You’re not the same_

_Why, tell me why_   
_Did you not treat me right?_   
_Love has a nasty habit_   
_Of disappearing overnight_

_You’re thinking of me_   
_The same old way_   
_You were above me_   
_But not today_   
_The only difference_   
_Is you’re down there_   
_I’m looking though you And you’re nowhere_

_Why, tell me why_   
_Did you not treat me right?_   
_Love has a nasty habit_   
_Of disappearing overnight_

_I’m looking through you_   
_Where did you go?_   
_I thought I knew you_   
_What did I know?_   
_You don’t look different_   
_But you have changed_   
_I’m looking through you_   
_You’re not the same_   
_Yeah, Oh, baby you’ve changed_   
_Aah, I’m looking through you_   
_Yeah, I’m looking through you_   
_You’ve changed, you’ve changed_   
_You’ve changed, you’ve changed_

The tune was standard McCartney. Slightly jaunty, peppy, and bright but the lyrics were darker than usual. Biting. Angry. More than its share of bitter.

Paul patted his pockets for a scrap of paper, a discarded receipt, anything to write his lyrics on, but it was to no avail. He had nothing at his disposal.

With a muttered curse, Paul did the only thing he could. He played the song over and over again so that he’d remember it. So intent was he on the song that he failed to notice another’s arrival, the person sneaking in behind him, until he felt a pair of warm hands cover his eyes.

“Guess who?” the person asked softly, voice directly in Paul’s ear.

Shifting uncomfortably, Paul stopped playing, and pried the hands from his eyes.

“Hey John,” he said as he imperceptibly shifted away, putting distance between himself and the other man. “How did you know where to find me?”

Smiling, John settled back against the tree, the light casting shadows on his face as he turned towards his lover.

“I just followed the sound of your voice, love,” he said with a smile, as he moved a bit closer, putting his hand on Paul’s knee.

Feeling the sensations course through his body from where John touched him, Paul shivered as he asked, “So, what are you doing here?”

“What?” John asked in a whisper as he nuzzled the side of Paul’s neck. “I can’t stop by to see my best guy?”

Paul leaned into the touch, his previous worries melting away for the moment as he let himself succumb to John’s gentle touch. Grinning, he turned his head to the side, and kissed John softly and sweetly, the two secluded in their own little garden paradise. Gripping the back of Paul’s head, John deepened the kiss, their bodies moving closer together on pure instinct alone. When breathing became a problem, the two broke apart, their arms tightening around each other, neither wanting to let go, a comfortable silence falling between the two.

“So, what are your plans for today?” Paul finally asked, breaking the quiet.

“Well, I thought I’d spend the day with you,” John answered, as he leaned against the tree once more, pulling Paul down into his lap.

“Did you now?” Paul asked with a grin, looking up from where his head rested against John’s stomach.

“Well, yeah,” he answered with an answering grin. “It seems like we haven’t been seeing each other enough lately.”

Laughingly Paul rolled his eyes, “We see each other every day, mate.”

“I know,” John replied. “But we haven’t spent any time alone together lately.”

“And two nights ago was…?”

“Hey!” John exclaimed indignantly. “Two nights apart is a bloody long time, love!”

“My mistake,” Paul said with another laugh.

Sighing, contentedly, John closed his eyes, his hands gently running through Paul’s hair as he spoke, “Oh, and I thought we’d visit George later on…”

Stiffening slightly, Paul ground out, “George?”

Not noticing the change in Paul’s mood, John replied, “Yeah, that’s not a problem is it?”

Sitting up, the younger man fixed him with a hard stare. “Depends on what exactly the reason behind the visit is,” he said in a low voice.

Sighing, John sat up as well, “You know why, love.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m fucking afraid of,” Paul snapped.

“Don’t act this way, Paul,” John replied, growing irritated.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re fucking jealous of what George and I share, when I have asked you time and time again to join me just once!” John exclaimed in frustration.

Face taking on a sour look, Paul shot back, “Well, sorry for being such a boring prick. So, if you’ll just excuse me, I’ll let you spend your day with George.” Stepping out of the little alcove, Paul poked his head back in, “I trust you know the way out?”

And with one last look bordering between hurt and anger, Paul stalked away, not heeding the call of his name from behind.


	15. In My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Rain pounded the streets heralding a typical night in England. The night sky was darker than usual, and for once the narrow streets were blissfully empty, devoid of ambling passerby and fast moving cars. That is except for a matte black Phantom V Rolls Royce which barreled through London’s winding roads at an alarming speed. Behind the wheel, John stared nearsightedly out of the rain splattered windshield, trying to make the turns without losing control of the car as it skidded over the rain slick roads.

Finally reaching his destination, John pulled his car up to the front gates and proceeded to blow the horn, waking up everyone within hearing distance. In a matter of seconds the imposing iron gates ground open and without further ado, John drove through. Upon parking the car haphazardly in the middle of the driveway, John grabbed his guitar and quickly got out of the car, the rain drenching him the minute he stepped foot on the pavement. He quickly ran through the pouring rain, his feet kicking up sheets of water as he made it to the covered front step, the dark-haired man shivering slightly in the cold.

Before he even rang the bell, the front door swung open suddenly, revealing a dour looking butler in a rumpled uniform, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he scornfully admitted the wet Beatle. Brushing past the servant, John stepped into the foyer, leaving puddles on the newly polished floors that did not go unnoticed.

“How’s he doing?” John asked as he turned to face the other man, concern marring his features.

“He’s a lot better, sir,” came the curt reply.

“Good, good. I came as fast as I could when I heard the news,” John continued distractedly, as he moved towards the stairs.

With a roll of his eyes, the butler grumbled, “I imagine you did, sir.”

Already moving up the steps, John gave the butler a look over his shoulder as he imparted one last request, “Make sure you have the guestroom ready, I’ll be staying the night.”

“Chances are you won’t even be using the room tonight, you fucking queer,” the butler grumbled to himself, as he rang the bell to summon the maid.

John took the stairs two at a time and quickly traversed the hallway to Paul’s bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he peeked in to find Paul sitting up in bed, propped up against the headboard with a mass of pillows as he watched TV, a bored look on his face.

John gently knocked on the door causing Paul to look up. His face broke into a smile as his eyes fell on the person at the door.

“John!” he exclaimed happily as he turned off the TV. “What are you doing here?”

Smiling, John entered the room and shut the door behind him. “I came to see you,” he answered. Then, frowning slightly, he continued. “Why are you up?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the younger man admitted with a pout. Perking up slightly, Paul asked, “Hey, you want to go out? The Bag O’ Nails should be fucking wild at this time.”

Frowning, John moved forward and placed a cool hand against Paul’s forehead. “You’re not going anywhere,” he replied firmly. “You’re sick!”

Paul simply waved John’s hand away. “It’s just the flu,” he answered dismissively. With an eager gleam in his eyes, Paul started to get up from the bed. “I’m fine. Come on, let’s go.”

Pushing the younger man down, John said in a stern voice “Sorry, but I can’t allow that. You’re staying right here until you’re better.”

Shoulders trapped under John’s hands, Paul whined. “Come on, John! I’ve been cooped up inside all day. I haven’t done anything but sleep and watch TV. I want to go out!”

Shaking his head, John spoke as though he was talking to a child. “Paulie, Paulie, Paulie,” he began. “What did the doctor say?”

Looking away, Paul said in an unconvincing voice, “That I could go out tonight…”

John just raised an eyebrow in response.

“Oh, fine,” Paul relented. “He told me to get rest for the next day or two, and that only after he checks up on me again will I know if I can go out again or not.”

Smirking, John patted Paul on the head. “Smart doctor, that,” he said. “Okay, now. Do you need anything? Water? Juice? Tea?”

Looking at John with a pleading look in his eyes, the younger man replied, “A scotch and coke and a joint would be nice…”

This time John simply glared in response.

“Oh fine,” Paul said with a roll of his eyes. “I suppose a cup of tea would be nice.”

With another pat on the head, John turned away as he said, “Now there’s a good lad.”

Smirking hopefully, Paul added, “Can you spike it with some Scotch?”

“Paul!”

“Okay, okay!” Paul replied in a placating manner. “Bloody hell, you’re just like my dad.”

Leaning down, John whispered, “Did your dad ever do this?” and he lowered his lips for a scorching kiss, causing Paul to moan deep in his throat from the intensity of it.

After breaking the kiss, Paul answered with a grin, “Not exactly. Not that he hasn’t ever tried.” Now smirking, Paul affected a hair flip before continuing, “I’m quite pretty, you know.”

John shook his head in amusement. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he turned to the door. “I’ll just go see about your tea.””

“No, wait!” Paul cried out, causing John to quickly turn around. “Stay.”

Walking back towards the bed, John answered, “I thought you wanted tea.”

“The bloody tea can wait.”

“All right,” John agreed with a shrug as he finally slipped out of his rain-soaked raincoat. As soon as the wet garment was off, John was surprised to see that rest of his clothes had remained relatively dry, the jacket take the brunt of the assault. His hair however was still damp, but there wasn’t much he could do about it at the moment.

Once his jacket was laid out to dry, John sat on the edge of the bed, Paul immediately moving over and tugging on John’s arm until the older man relented and lay back as Paul curled into his side.

“You’re going to get sick, you know,” Paul commented as he snuggled into John further.

“Yeah, I know,” John said. Smirking, he continued, “But it’s a small price to pay to be spending the night with the dreamy Paul McCartney.”

With a laugh, Paul punched John in the shoulder, “And don’t you fucking forget it, love.”

Kissing Paul’s forehead briefly, John asked, “So, where’s Jane? She’s not going to burst in here and faint at what she sees, will she?”

“She’s in America,” Paul said with a laugh at the image that John had created. “Touring with the Old Vic.

“Well,” John said responded with a relieved smile. “That works out quite nicely then.”

“That it does.” With a curious look, Paul gave John a sideways glance. “What did you tell Cyn anyway?” Smiling sheepishly, John said, “Nothing. I just ran out of the house after getting George’s call about your falling ill.”

Shaking his head in amusement, Paul chose not to answer.

“What?” John finally asked when faced Paul’s silence.

“I didn’t say a word!” Paul protested as he turned his head towards the older man.

“Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking, so you might as well tell me,” came the irritated reply.

Sighing, Paul said, “I just think that you should’ve said something to her. She must get worried when you disappear all of a sudden like that.”

Grinning, John leaned over and pinched Paul’s cheek as he answered, “Well, I couldn’t waste time with words when my little baby was on his death bed, now could I?”

“I’m hardly on my death bed, Johnny,” Paul laughed as he pushed John off, the older man chuckling as well.

The laughter soon tapered off and a comfortable silence fell between the two, punctuated by the sound of raindrops falling on the roof, the sound almost lulling the two men to sleep. After a while, John turned towards Paul, a preoccupied look on his face as the thoughts in his head forced him to speak.

“Oh, I wrote a song today,” the older man said casually, the nervousness in his eyes bellying his words and tone of voice.

Sitting up, Paul looked over at John with eager eyes.

“You are going to play it for me, right?” Paul said excitedly, as he started to bounce up and down on the bed.

Laughing, John replied. “Yes, I will,” he assured the sick younger man. “Hold on, let me get my guitar.”

The older man climbed out of bed, and quickly retrieved his guitar from where he had leaned it against the wall. He then curled one leg under him as he sat on the bed across from Paul, who now sat cross-legged, attentively waiting for John to begin.

With a gulp, John cleared his throat and began to play, the sound of his singing and strumming just barely drowning out the noises from outside.

_There are places I remember_   
_All my life, though some have changed_   
_Some forever not for better_   
_Some have gone and some remain_   
_All these places had their moments_   
_With lovers and friends_   
_I still can recall_   
_Some are dead and some are living_   
_In my life I’ve loved them all_

_But of all these friends and lovers_   
_there is no one compares with you_   
_And these memories lose their meaning_   
_When I think of love as something new_   
_Though I know I’ll never lose affection_   
_For people and things that went before_   
_I know I’ll often stop and think about them_   
_In my life I love you more_

_Though I know I’ll never lose affection_   
_For people and things that went before_   
_I know I’ll often stop and think about them_   
_In my life I love you more_   
_In my life I love you more_

Too soon the strumming faded away and Paul looked on silently, causing John to grow increasingly nervous. The fidgeting started soon after until finally Paul spoke.

“If that fucking song isn’t about me,” the younger man began. “I’m going to kick your ass out of this house.”

John started to chuckle in relief. “Don’t worry, love,” he said, his hands up in a placating gesture. “It’s about you.”

A huge smile then crossed Paul’s face as he said quietly, “It’s lovely, Johnny.”

“Ta, mate,” the older man responded, his grin mirroring his lover’s.

With a squeal Paul launched himself at John, “Oh, you do love me! You do, you do, you do!” he cried, sounding very much like a rabid fan.

Laughing, John tried to push the younger man off. “Gerroff, Macca,” he pleaded in a none too convincing manner as Paul began to kiss every inch of John’s face, starting with both cheeks, his lips, and them his forehead. “Paul!” John said more forcefully. “You need to rest!” And with every bit of strength, he grabbed Paul by the waist and pushed him off.

With a pout, Paul crossed his arms in front of his chest, “You’re no fun,” he whined like a child.

“I swear,” John commented with a shake of his head. “Being sick makes you more immature than normal.”

Grinning, Paul responded cheekily. “Then what’s your excuse for your usual nature?”

John simply shook his head in amusement, “Touché.” Sobering, the older man continued, “Okay, now, seriously you have to get some sleep. Just remember the more rest you get, the sooner you’ll get better and the sooner you can get out of here.”

“Oh, fine,” Paul replied with a sigh. Looking up with a hopeful look, Paul asked, “You’re staying right?”

Smiling, John pushed a lock of hair out of Paul’s eyes as he answered, “If you’ll have me.”

The younger man simply rolled his eyes, “Like you don’t already know the answer to that bloody question.”

Paul lay back down and made himself comfortable as John quickly shed his damp clothes before shutting off the light. Pulling the blanket over them two of them, John lay down as well, as Paul, again, snuggled into his side as he always did, one arm curled over the older man’s chest.

“Love you, Johnny,” Paul murmured sleepily, as he slowly dozed off.

With a smile, John kissed Paul on the forehead, and said softly, “I love you, too,” before joining Paul in slumber.


	16. Here, There, and Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Abbey Road studios were blissfully quiet, the usually raucous building devoid of life and sound. This state of affairs could probably be attributed to the late hour, most people generally being at home or out at the clubs at 2 AM on a Saturday night. Or early Sunday morning depending on how one looked at things. However, things were not as quiet as it first seemed, for Paul was holed up in studio two, sitting on the floor with his acoustic guitar on his lap and an old copy book on the floor in front of him.

Inspiration had hit him that afternoon as he lounged by John’s pool, surrounded by the lush green foliage of Kenwood, the rambling manor in the exclusive St. George’s Hill Estates in Weybridge, London. Staring into the crystal clear water and watching John splash around with his son Julian in an uncommon display of fatherly affection, Paul couldn’t help but feel a strong surge of love and affection for the man in his life. He had immediately whipped out a pad of paper and upon jotting down the preliminary lyrics to the song had departed in an excited frenzy, bestowing kisses upon John and Julian as he speedily made his way to the studio. He had been there ever since.

Now, he hummed a low tune under his breath, smiling to himself as he jotted down lyrics in the book, happy as he read what he had so far. With a quick look up, he did a double take as he saw how late it was, but with a shrug he then went back to work, eager to put the finishing touches on his new song.

After an hour of working diligently, Paul finally threw down his pen with a muttered, “Bloody hell. It’s finally done.” With a groan, he stood up , stretching out his back and cramped legs, as he hobbled around the studio a bit, working the kinks out.

“How those bloody Indians meditate in one pose for hours on end is beyond me,” Paul grumbled to himself, as a particularly bad bout of pins and needles assaulted his left foot.

Once the discomfort subsided, Paul walked to the control booth, his fingers lightly skimming the many knobs and switches in front of him, before a telephone in the corner caught his eye.

Running back to the main room, Paul quickly grabbed his guitar and headed towards the phone pulling up a chair as he lifted the receiver and started to dial a familiar number.

“Hello?” a surprisingly alert voice answered, and Paul checked the time again to make sure that it is was late as he previously had thought.

“Hi John,” Paul greeted. “Wow, you sound quite chipper for 2:30 AM.”

“Paulie!” the older man replied, happily. “Yeah, I’ve been up for a while, just haven’t been able to sleep.”

“What have you been doing?” Paul asked, curiously.

“Jacking off.”

Smirking, the younger man responded, “Now that I believe.”

“Actually,” John continued with a laugh. “I was drawing. Jules left his crayons out and I just picked them up. I’ve been hard at work ever since.”

With a laugh, Paul replied, “Well, that’s good to hear.”

“Cor, do you remember that one trip to Japan when the four of us created that wild piece of art?” John asked, excitedly. “Shit, man. We should’ve kept it!”

“I know,” the younger man responded with regret. “But how can you say no when they asked if they could auction it off for charity?”

“Like this, ‘Piss off,’ the older man replied cattily.

Shaking his head with amusement, Paul chuckled, “Well, that’s one way of doing it.”

“Macca, where the fuck are you anyway?” John suddenly asked, the curiosity in his voice painfully loud. “I’ve been trying to call you after you ran out of my house this afternoon.”

“Oh,” Paul responded, pleased. “I’ve been in the studio.”

“All afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Paul said. “Why? What did you need?”

“Bloody hell, mate” the older man responded with something akin to awe. “Someone’s a little overachiever, aren’t they?”

Laughingly, Paul replied. “Piss off, Johnny.” His voice growing serious, Paul continued, “I just got inspired today and I just had to put down some sort of a demo.”

“You know, you could’ve stuck around and used my studio,” John replied, amused.

Paul grew silent, as he ponders John’s words, “You know, you got a point there.”

“So,” John said after a brief pause. “Let’s have a listen.”

“Oh, right.” Paul said, suddenly shy. “That’s why I called you actually. I wanted to play the song for you.”

“Well, go on then, mate.”

Picking his guitar off the floor, Paul strums a few chords before starting to sing softly, his voice still loud in the quiet studio.

_To lead a better life_   
_I need my love to be here_

_Here, making each day of the year_   
_Changing my life with a wave of his hand_   
_Nobody can deny that there’s something there_

_There, running my hands through his hair_   
_Both of us thinking how good it can be_   
_Someone is speaking, but he doesn’t know he’s there_

_I want him everywhere_   
_And if he’s beside me I know I need never care_   
_But to love him is to need him_

_Everywhere, knowing that love is to share_   
_Each one believing that love never dies_   
_Watching his eyes and hoping I’m always there_

_I want him everywhere_   
_And if he’s beside me I know I need never care_   
_But to love him is to need him_

_I will be there, and everywhere_   
_Here, there and everywhere_

Paul waited tensely for John’s opinion, afraid that his mate’s acid tongue would let loose with a stream of disapproval.

After a few seconds, John’s quiet voice came over the line. “Paul,” he said softly. “I hate to admit it, but that is now one of my favourite fucking songs. That was bloody beautiful.”

A relieved smile breaking out on his face, Paul replied, “Ta, love.” Smirking, he continued, “Of course, I will have change some of the words around. Can’t exactly write a love song about a bloke now can I?

“And who did you have in mind when you wrote this song, Mr. McCartney?” John asked briskly, sounding much like a reporter during a press conference.

“Why, my old mate John,” Paul answered, with a smile. “We’ve been together for years now, and it seemed like the time to finally come out, so to speak.”

John laughed, as he replied, “You do realise that legions of female fans would be throwing themselves off high buildings if they ever found out about us?”

“Oh, the price of being wanted,” Paul said sadly, as he shook his head.

“You sound so distraught over the prospect,” the older man responded sarcastically.

“Well, you know,” Paul began conversationally. “It comes with the territory Plus, who wouldn’t bloody want us?”

Sounding equally as haughty, John responded, “You’re right there, love. We are quite the catch.” After a brief pause, John spoke in a whisper, “Thank you, Paul. The song’s lovely.”

“You’re welcome,” Paul replied with a smile. “And thank you as well. I’m glad you liked it.”

“So, where are you headed to now?”

“I was just going to go home,” Paul replied. “Why?”

“Come by,” John asked in one breath.

“What?” Paul asked, surprised, nearly falling of his chair. “Now? Isn’t Cynthia home?”

“Well, yeah,” the other man said dismissively. “But she won’t mind. Come on,” John cajoled. “You can get in that swim you missed out on this afternoon.”

With a contemplative look on his face, Paul mused, “Well, it is tempting….”

“And imagine how romantic it would be,” John said silkily, his voice low. “A little midnight swim for two, and no bathing suits required.”

“Are you propositioning me, Lennon?” Paul smirked.

“That I am, love,” John said slyly.

“Well, how could I turn that down?” the younger man replied quickly. “I’ll be there in a few.”

“All right, love. See you soon,” John said, “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

With a grin, Paul practically threw the receiver in its cradle, and after making sure to turn out all the lights, he grabbed his guitar and coat and sprinted out of the studio, the door slamming behind him with the sound ringing through the building.


	17. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

A narrow, rectangular room at the top of the house, Paul’s work room was like a hybrid of a home studio and an amateur art gallery. Stereophonic equipment, amplifiers, and various musical instruments lived in a sort of odd harmony with silver sculptures by Paolozzi and a large triptych of Paul’s own titian-haired beauty. Wide windows with blinds pulled down, comfortable chairs and sofas, as well, as the usual array of ashtrays rounded out the room, creating a rather plush area in which to make music.

Sitting in a corner of the room, John sat cross-legged on the floor, sitar held awkwardly in his hands, with the instrument not quite balanced between his right foot and left knee. He tried to play a simple melody, the index finger of his left hand running up and down the neck of the sitar, and though the tune that issued forth was lovely, it lacked the clarity and accuracy of an expert sitar player.

Frustrated, John nearly threw the instrument to the side and stood, muttering curses under his breath, as he stretched out his legs and moved towards the window, pulling the blinds open as he peered outside. A smirk curled his lips as he caught sight of the eyes and foreheads of a number of girls over the top of the surrounding wall, all looking up at him with wide gazes. With a haughty look on his face, John waved at them, causing the girls to fall one by one in shocked surprise, until they were completely out of sight. Chuckling to himself, he turned towards Paul, who had been banging away at the piano without interruption ever since John had arrived an hour and a half ago.

Eyebrow raised, John slinked towards his occupied lover, placing his hands on Paul’s tense shoulders as he leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“You look busy, love,” he said softly, tongue darting out to lick the side of his neck.

Paul nearly yelped in surprise, the music ceasing the minute that he placed his hands on his chest, as if to still his frantically beating heart.

“Don’t do that again!” Paul scolded, his cheeks flushed and his breathing erratic.

Smirking John leaned down and gave Paul a quick kiss, “Sorry, mate,” he said, though he clearly wasn’t sorry at all. “Just thought you needed a bit of a breather.”

“John,” Paul began with a shake of his head. “We have to finish this bloody song! You know that!”

“But we’re practically done!” the older man protested. “You have your bit and I have mine. Thinking of a way to connect the two parts won’t be too difficult, besides, I’m so bloody bored!” he ended with a pout.

“Aww,” Paul cooed as he reached over to pinch John’s cheek painfully. “Is little Johnny feeling neglected?”

Batting the younger man’s hand away, John rubbed his newly reddened skin as he glared back at Paul.

“Yes, I am!” he exclaimed. “And as a guest in your house, it is your duty to entertain me.”

With a roll of his eyes, Paul turned back to the piano. “John,” he began with a smirk. “You’re about as much of a guest here, as I am. You’re here practically all the bloody time! You might as well move in.”

“May I?” John asked hopefully

“You may, though what you tell Julian, Cynthia and the press is entirely up to you,” Paul said with a wry smile.

“Oh, right. Them,” John replied with a disappointed sigh as his shoulders sagged. Suddenly smirking, he continued. “Well, once I come up with a reason that doesn’t sound completely dodgy, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Paul chuckled softly, “I’m sure you will.”

As Paul returned to banging on the piano, John turned towards the window once again, shaking his head at the return of the foreheads and eyes. However, the number of girls was fewer than before, attributed to the quickly darkening sky.

“I don’t know how you do it, love.” John suddenly commented as he turned away from the window.

“Hmm?” Paul sounded absently, before turning towards the other man. “Do what?”

Gesturing towards the window, John clarified, “Live here with all those fucking eyes on you day in and day out.”

Getting up, Paul walked over to John and peered out the window, a grin crossing his face at the sight of his shadows.

“Oh, you mean the girls?” he asked. “They’re all right, actually. I have the occasional chat with them and they’re nice girls. Plus, they’re right helpful. Taking Martha out on walks whenever I have to be at the studio.”

“But they’re always there!” John exclaimed in exasperation.

Paul simply shrugged. “Well, what can you do? It’s the fucking price I have to pay for living in London.”

As he continued to look out the window, gaze lingering on the darkening sky, John slowly moved behind him and wrapped his arms around Paul’s waist, as he began to nuzzle the younger man’s neck.

With a low whisper John said, “How about we give them a real show then, Paulie?

Moaning softly, Paul arched his body towards the feel of John’s lips forgetting for a moment that they were in plain view of the girls outside.

“Mmmm,” John groaned into Paul’s ear. “I’d love to turn you on.”

Hands tightening around John’s arms, Paul closed his eyes and leaned back fully, his body flush against the older man’s. “You’re doing a fucking job of it as it is.”

Suddenly, body stiffening, Paul opened his eyes, and they widened when he saw how exposed the two of them were. With a wholly unmanly yelp, he quickly lunged forwards and after a minute’s struggle, lowered the blinds before fixing John with an angry look.

“John!” he shouted. “Are you crazy? Did you want us to get caught?”

“Calm down, Paul,” John said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s getting dark, I’m sure the girls are on their way home by now.”

Hands on his hips, Paul continued to glare. “And if they’re not?” he ground out.

“What are they going to say, love?” John continued calmly. “I saw John and Paul necking in the window?’ I doubt that anyone would believe them.” At Paul’s raised eyebrow, John amended with a sigh, “Okay, they might. But even if they did, who fucking cares?”

Paul let out a low sigh. “It’s risky, John,” he replied, a bit calmer than a minute before. “You know that.”

John simply pouted and turned away, moving towards the Paolozzi sculpture and tweaking the Dalek heads on top.

With another sigh, Paul turned back towards the piano, stopping halfway when something occurred to him.

Whipping around to face John, Paul spoke with barely concealed excitement. “What was that you said a few minutes ago?”

Not bothering to turn around, John replied sulkily, “When?”

“When we were at the window.”

Smirking, John turned around and answered, “About giving the girls a show?”

With a sour look, Paul ignored John and replied, “No, after that.”

Racking his brain, John responded, “I’d love to turn you on?”

A look of recognition passed between the two men as they exclaimed simultaneously, “That’s it!”

Quickly returning to the piano, the two sat side by side as John pulled out a crumpled piece of paper with his lyrics on it, and started to hit the chords as he sang exuberantly.

_I read the news today oh, boy_   
_About a lucky man who made the grade_   
_And though the news was rather sad_   
_Well, I just had to laugh_   
_I saw the photograph_   
_He blew his mind out in a car_   
_He didn’t notice that the lights had changed_   
_A crowd of people stood and stared_   
_They’d seen his face before_   
_Nobody was really sure_   
_if he was from the House of Lords_

_I saw a film today oh, boy_   
_The English army had just won the war_   
_A crowd of people turned away_   
_But I just had to look_   
_Having read the book_

Paul then chimed in and together they sang the newly added line.

_I’d love to turn you on._

Pushing John to the side and nearly making him tumble off the bench, Paul took over the piano as he began to sing his part of the song.

_Woke up, got out of bed_   
_dragged a comb across my head_   
_Found my way downstairs and drank a cup_   
_and looking up, I noticed I was late_   
_Found my coat and grabbed my hat_   
_Made the bus in seconds flat_   
_Found my way upstairs and had a smoke_   
_Somebody spoke and I went into a dream_   
_Ah_

Smiling wide, John shoved Paul over, the two starting a mini shoving match as John laughingly tried to finish up.

_I read the news today oh, boy_   
_Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire_   
_And though the holes were rather small_   
_They had to count them all_   
_Now they know how many holes_   
_it takes to fill the Albert Hall_

_Giggling with their shoulders pressed against each other they sang the connecting line, their voices warbling on the word “turn.”_

_I’d love to turn you on._

In a continual fit of giggles the two slid from the piano bench and started to laugh uncontrollably.

“Do we dare?” Paul said between fits of giggles.

“I say we go for it,” John replied with a grin. “It’s not like the line isn’t in the culture anyway.”

“True,” Paul agreed. “But no one’s actually said it on record yet!”

“So,” John shrugged. “We’ll be the first.” Laughing, he continued, “This will certainly shoot our adorable mop top image to hell.”

“I can hardly wait,” came the reply.

The two smiled and glanced at each other, the giggly atmosphere shifting almost imperceptibly.

Coyly, Paul said, “So, did you mean it when you said you’d love to turn me on?”

With a raised eyebrow and a smirk, John replied, “What the fuck do you think?”

“Wait for me in the bedroom?” Paul asked, as he stood, pulling John up with him.

“You don’t have to ask my twice.”

With an exaggerated swing of the hips, the older man sashayed out of the room, pausing in the doorway to throw Paul a smouldering “Come hither” look that would put Brigitte Bardot’s best sexy gaze to shame.

Watching his antics with an amused grin, Paul turned off the light, and walked towards the window. Pulling aside the blinds, he quickly blew a kiss to the remaining three girls, and then in hurried steps exited the room, closing the door behind him.


	18. Hey Bulldog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The crash of a jangling piano broke through the din in the studio as the tuning of a guitar, the banging of a snare, and the rhythmic shaking of a tambourine all added their own unique sound to the mix. People milled about the spacious room, some lighting up cigarettes, others sitting on unused instrument cases, plates of Heinz Baked beans on toast balanced precariously on their laps, while another group stood in a corner by the mic, engrossed in deep conversation. However, knowing the participants, it was probably about ordering colourful socks, or some such subject of equal import.

By and by, the crowd thinned. Cigarette butts were crushed in overflowing ashtrays, plates of beans and toast were scraped clean and pushed off to the side, and all conversation had slowed. Moving towards a mic in the middle of the studio, Paul and John quietly looked through a sheaf of crumpled pages as they placed headphones around their ears and got ready to record their vocals.

John coughed dramatically and cleared his throat quite noisily as he sang into the microphone, “Mi, mi, miiiii…”

Looking on amused, Paul simply shook his head, “You’re a bloody nut, you know that?”

Acting incredibly offended, John sniffed rather snootily. “I beg your pardon?” he said in his best upper crust accent. “How dare you…”

“Oi, guv’nor,” Paul replied in his best Scouse one. “I mean n’harm.”

“Well, I hope not,” John said with, his nose in the air. “Or off with your head.”

Laughing from the corner, George piped in, “John, love, how ever will you find a guillotine at this time of the night?”

Whirling around, John pointed his finger threateningly at the smirking younger man.

“You dare speak out of turn?” he shouted out, incredulously. And with deadly efficiency, he rolled up his arms, gave the room a grim smile and yelled, “That’s it!”

As John made to barrel into George with Paul holding onto the back of John’s shirt, the room erupted into laughter. Suddenly, the sound of the older, more sophisticated George boomed into the studio, halting all horsing around.

“Ready for playback, boys?” he asked.

With heads bowed low, John and Paul scampered back to the mic, despondent looks on their face.

“Please, sir,” John begged, as he dropped to his knees, clasped his hands in front of him, and looked up at the expanse of clear glass on the other side of the room, giving those in the control room a clear look into the studio. “I was led astray.”

With an over exaggerated look of fear on his face, Paul cowered behind the older man, whimpering, “Please. Don’t cane us.”

With a sigh, the older George simply shook his head. “Boys?”

“Yes, sir?” the two chorused together.

“Do shut up.”

And with quickly quieting snickers, John and Paul nodded and helped each other stand, both making a big production out of dusting themselves off before turning towards the mic simultaneously.

“Hey Bulldog, Take 10.”

And a piano riff resounded through the studio, soon accompanied by a wailing guitar and drums, the boys then taking their cue to begin.

_Sheep dog standing in the rain_   
_Bull grog doing it again_   
_Some kind of happiness is_   
_Measured out in miles_   
_What make you think you’re_   
_Something special when you smile_

At this John and Paul exchanged quick smiles, eyes sparkling mischievously as the next few stanzas stumbled from their lips.

_Childlike, no one understands_   
_Jack knife, in your sweaty hands_   
_Some kind of innocence is_   
_Measured out in years_   
_You don’t know what it’s like_   
_To listen to you fears_

_You can talk to me_   
_You can talk to me_   
_You can talk to me_   
_If you’re lonely, you can talk to me_

_Big man, walking in the park_   
_Wigwam, frightened of the dark_   
_Some kind of solitude is_   
_Measured out in you_   
_You think you know but you haven’t got a clue_

_You can talk to me_   
_You can talk to me_   
_You can talk to me_   
_If you’re lonely, you can talk to me_

Then suddenly without warning, Paul started to bark and howl, and doing it quite convincingly at that. With a startled glance towards his mate, John bit back a laugh as the following lyric suddenly changed from “Hey bullfrog” to something more appropriate.

“Hey Bulldog,” the two intoned together, shoulders quaking in barely repressed laughter, the two adlibbing as the reel continued to roll.

“Hey man,” Paul said into the mike, winking up at John.

“What’s that, boy?” John asked, as he reached over to ruffle his mate’s hair.

With a grin, Paul barked.

“Whaddya say?” John cried out, his hand cupping his hear.

“I say, ruff!” Paul responded with an eye roll and a grin.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet and nearly knocking Paul over, John asked quite seriously, “Do you know any more?”

With a yelp, Paul moved out of the way before screaming, “Wowowowwwaaaaa!” at the top of his lungs.

Taking everyone by surprise, John started to scream loudly and rather hysterically, as well, with Paul’s hurried words running over the top in a mimicry of a headlong train crash.

“You got it, that’s it, you hit it, that’s it man, Whoop! That’s it, you got it” Paul babbled, as he and John moved in closer to the mic as John continued to scream.

“Don’t look at me, man, I already have ten children,” Paul said, much to the increased amusement of the others.

Still, John’s screaming continued.

“Clap man, clap,” Paul cried out, and with an irritated look, he clapped John on the shoulder as he said, “Quiet boy, quiet!”

With a smirk, John answered with a simple, “Okay.”

Grinning back, Paul responded with “Clap! Quiet!” before the two joined in on the last lyric.

_Hey Bulldog_

As the music faded away, both men flung down their headphones and collapsed into laughter.

“What the fuck was that?” Ringo said in confused amusement as he and George walked over to the incapacitated pair.

“I have no bloody clue,” John gasped out between laughs. Pointing his thumb over at Paul, he continued, “Ask this one here. He’s the one who started barking like a fucking dog!”

Continuing to laugh, Paul could barely get the words out, the others looking on in amusement as he leaned so heavily into John that it caused the both of them to fall to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Fucking hell,” George muttered, under his breath as he watched the two. “They’ve gone quite barmy, haven’t they?” he said, turning to Ringo.

“That they have,” the older man responded with an amused shake of his head. “And look,” he continued as he pointed up towards the control room. “He’s scared the others away.”

Looking up, the other three saw that Ringo was correct. The light in the control room had been extinguished and the entire room emptied out.

Grinning, George made way for the door calling over his shoulder, “I think that’s reason enough to get out of here. Anybody up for a night at the Bag?”

Following quickly behind, Ringo replied, “You don’t have to say that twice.”

And without a backwards glance, the two exited the studio with a slam of the door.

Grinning at each other, John and Paul snickered slightly as they helped each other up.

With a sideways glace at Paul, John asked curiously, “What was that all about anyway?”

Shrugging, Paul simply laughed, “I have no bloody clue. Was fun though, wasn’t it?”

Wrapping his arm around the younger man’s waist, John pulled Paul close as they walked out of the studio.

“I worry about you sometimes, love,” John began in a falsely serious voice. “Barking like a dog? I think something might not be quite right up here.”

Smirking, Paul turned his head and gently nipped John’s neck.

“What can I say?” he whispered. “You bring out the animal in me.”

Stopping suddenly, John turned to Paul with a horrified look. “That was bloody terrible, love!” he exclaimed. Shaking his head in disgust, John continued, “I’m sorry but I just can’t be with you anymore if you’re going to say horribly dodgy things like that.”

Then bursting into laughter, the two walked out of the studio, their voices echoing in the hallway.


	19. I Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Whenever India had crossed their minds, they always pictured a world of frenetic activity with a cacophony of sound that tore at one’s very being. The scent of spices in the air, mingled with the odour of unwashed animals and unwashed people overloading the senses and making it even harder to concentrate on just one thing. Throngs of people from all walks of life converging in the middle of busy streets and walking unhurriedly amidst speeding cars and rickshaws, not heeding the fact that their very lives were in danger.

It was a place characterized by a hustle and bustle that was far removed from the quiet dignity of their once oppressors. Sometimes it almost seemed as though India sought to create an existence that was the total opposite of England in an attempt to spit on the ideals that the English held so dear.

And it’s true, India was a world of swirling colours, tantalizing smells, and dizzying sounds, but that was not the only way to describe this multi-faceted country.

Sitting high above the din, the Beatles were in a serene land of sweeping trees, cooler climes, and flowing rivers. It was where spiritual enlightenment could be achieved through meditation in the foothills of the Himalayas, the waters of the Ganges flowing within and without you.

It was also where spirituality could be bought, and all it cost was room and board at the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi’s comfortable ashram.

Who ever said that the best things in life were free was grossly mistaken.

Sitting atop a jutting rock in the riverbed, with ancient Hindu temples in the background, Paul softly strummed his guitar, the blue sky above reflecting in the water in front of him. Looking up from his instrument, the dark-haired man looked about him in awe, drinking in the beauty of the untouched landscape. With a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, Paul looked down, suddenly looking lost and lonely.

As he continued to strum, lyrics rose unbidden to his throat, and in a soft voice he haltingly sang the words to a song he was still trying to polish. It was something light, lilting, and almost hopeful, mirroring the world around him.

_Who knows how long I’ve loved you_   
_You know I love you still_   
_Will I wait a lonely lifetime?_   
_If you want me to I will_

_For if I ever saw you_   
_I didn’t catch your name_   
_But it never really mattered_   
_I will always feel the same_

_Love you forever and forever_   
_Love you with all my heart_   
_Love you whenever we’re together_   
_Love you when we’re apart_

_And when at last I find you_   
_Your song will fill the air_   
_Sing it loud so I can hear you_   
_Make it easy to be near you_   
_For the things you do endear you to me_   
_And you know I will_   
_I will_

With a heavy sigh, Paul placed his guitar on a nearby boulder and made sure that the instrument wouldn’t plummet to the waters below before leaning back and resting his head against the wall of rock. Closing his eyes, Paul let the warmth from the sun caress his face, causing him to fall into a drowsy state, lost somewhere between sleeping and waking, his thoughts haunted by the dual figures of a blonde beauty and a man with dark eyes and a mischevious smile.

Suddenly, a pair of warm lips descended upon his, and with a start Paul opened his eyes only to find himself looking into a pair of laughing brown ones. His own gaze widening comically, Paul lost his precarious balance, and nearly fell off his perch, before John quickly grabbed his arms with a laugh.

“Now, I’ve bloody heard about making someone swoon with a kiss, but this is too fucking much,” John laughed as he helped Paul sit upright.

With a mock glare, Paul swatted John’s hands away.

“You startled, me is all,” Paul replied with a roll of his eyes. Scolding, he continued, “And don’t do that again! What would you do if I had fallen, cracked my bloody head open, and washed away in the Ganges?”

Feigning distress, John placed the back of his hand against his forehead as he spread himself across a boulder, eyes closed in abject misery.

“Why, I surely would’ve perished!” he exclaimed.

“It would serve you right, too,” Paul replied with a grin.

“Oh!” John said, shocked. “Such a cold heart from one with such an angelic face.”

“What can I say?” the younger man responded with a careless shrug. “I use the pretty face to hide a cold, dark soul.”

With mirroring grins the two laughed loudly, the sound ringing out in the warm air.

Making himself more comfortable, John sat cross-legged, as he glanced at his mate. “So, shat are you doing all the way out here anyway?” he asked.

“Oh,” Paul frowned. “Just needed some time to myself, is all. I was starting to feel a bit stifled at the ashram.”

“I know what you mean. I don’t think I’ve ever spent so much time with Cyn before this trip,” John replied with a shudder. “It’s starting to be a drag.”

“John!” Paul scolded, as he punched the older man in the arm. “Be nice.”

“Yes, mum,” John answered dutifully, with a roll of eyes.

Then suddenly excited, he took a bundle of papers out of his pocket, spreading them out on a nearby rock as he gestured Paul to come closer.

“Oi, Macca,” he exclaimed. “You have to fucking see this. I swear, man, this woman is fucking barmy!”

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Paul looked over. Jealousy and hurt coursing through his veins, the younger man ground out. “You still writing to her, then?”

“Yeah,” John replied. “I’ve tried not to, but she keeps sending me these crazy letters! I can’t help but respond.”

Frowning slightly, Paul looked away before speaking again, his voice starting to rise. “Don’t you think you’re encouraging her though by writing back?”

John simply dismissed his lover’s words with a wave of his hand, affecting a casual expression. “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” he replied with forced breeziness. “I doubt I’ll ever see her again anyway. She’s just a laugh.”

“Yeah. Right,” Paul laughed bitterly.

With a sideways glance, John quickly looked over, catching the hurt look that flitted over Paul’s face. Starting to feel a bit troubled himself, John reached out for Paul’s hand as he leaned in close to ask, “Okay, what’s the matter?”

Muttering under his breath, Paul answered, “Nothing.”

“Don’t fucking give me that, Macca,” John pleaded, eyes gazing into Paul’s beseechingly.

“Fine!” Paul suddenly shouted. “I don’t like you writing this woman so much! It doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” John snapped as he let go of Paul’s hand to rub his neck. “You fucking sound like Cynthia, going on and on about how dangerous Yoko is and all that rubbish. She’s a little Japanese woman! What fucking harm can she do?”

“Well, she’s already caused this, hasn’t she?” Paul spat angrily.

“Oh, give it a rest, Paul!” John exclaimed. Voice softening he continued. “It doesn’t mean anything. I promise. It means nothing.” Muttering to himself, John repeated the words again, almost as if he was trying top convince himself.

“Then stop!” Paul cried desperately.

“I can’t!” the older man yelled.

“Why the fuck not?”

“I don’t know!” John shouted, confusion evident in his face and voice. Softening his tone, the older man continued. “She just, she makes me feel alive! She fucking makes me think.”

Hurt, Paul turned away.

Sadness etched into his face, John reached out to the younger man, “Paul,” he whispered softly. “Please, Paul.”

But Paul refused to turn around.

Grabbing the other man’s shoulder, John made Paul face him as he reached over the cupped his mate’s face in his hands.

Looking searchingly in Paul’s face, John whispered, “I love you. You know that, right?”

Eyes downcast, the younger man replied “I think so.”

Without warning, John punched Paul in the shoulder.

“Fucking hell, Johnny,” the irate younger man complained as he rubbed the sore area. “Some way to show your love.”

John glared in return.

Relenting, Paul replied, “Fine. I know so.”

“And you know that that is never going to change, right?” John said, sternly. At Paul’s answering nod, the older man continued. “Then why are we fighting about this?”

With a sigh, Paul answered, “I don’t know. I know it’s stupid. I just get an odd feeling about this.”

“Well, don’t, okay?” John replied, as he leaned in for a quick kiss.

“Fine,” Paul replied resignedly. Then with a slight glare he continued jokingly, “But if you leave me for a dodgy Japanese bird, I’m never speaking to you again.”

With a chuckle, John ruffled Paul’s hair. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

In the distance, a bell was heard, and both men slowly stood, dusting off their off-white garments as they did so.

“Well, seems like its time for another meal of dodgy curry and chapattis,” John said with a groan as the two climbed up the rocks to level ground.

Sighing sadly, Paul shook his head. “I miss baked beans on toast,” he whimpered.

“And jam butties,” John echoed.

“And good English tea,” Paul added with a smile

The figures of the two faded off into the distance, both still talking and joking about food that they missed, as the sun set behind them.


	20. I’m So Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

What used to be a restful, peaceful and in some ways cathartic, experience, the process of recording an album had become a royal pain in the fucking ass. Playful banter, laughs, and mock fights had been replaced by tense silences, glares, and the almost indistinguishable sound of grinding teeth. Nerves and tempers were stretched as far as they could go, and one harsh word or inconsiderate action would cause them to shatter. Hardly a smile could be seen, those in the studio preferring to avoid each other’s eyes, lest they inadvertently convey the feeling of pain and remorse that they were all feeling acutely.

It was an upsetting thing to behold, even for those outside of the once tight knit circle.

Sitting in a far corner of the studio, George testily tuned his guitar, the youngest member twisting the knobs almost savagely as he looked up every once in a while to glare at his fellow band members. And looking quiet and unhappy in a different part of the studio was Ringo, the drummer idly tapping his cymbals and snares as he stared at the wall.

The only two who exhibited any sense of happiness at all were John and Yoko, the pair huddled in a corner and far removed from everyone else, their heads together as they laughed and giggled amongst themselves. Wholly absorbed in their own little world.

Striding into the room, with a faltering gait, Paul stood off to the side, a lost look on his usually confident face as he carried his bass over one shoulder. Looking around the room, his eyes fell on George’s hunched over form, but the younger man resolutely ignored him. Moving his gaze away, Paul caught Ringo’s eyes and the two share a tired smile, before Ringo turned back to his drums.

And with sinking heart, the tired young man forced his eyes not to travel over to where John and Yoko were sitting, though his ears couldn’t help but pick up the muted sounds of their excited whispers.

Shoulders slumped, Paul shuffled further into the room without a word of greeting as he plugged in his bass and started to tune it.

It was the first time that the four Beatles had been in the same studio together for the recording of their upcoming album.

Looking around once more, a resolute look on his face, Paul did the thing that he had come to do. So, he stepped up to the mic and after tapping it to see if it was on, he directed his words towards to the control room.

“Ready to record, George,” he called out. With a small grin, he continued, “’I’m So Tired,’ take one.”

Ringo looked up in surprise, and two exchanged a smirk as Paul began to play, the drummer nodding his head to the thumping bass as he began to hit his snares and pound the bass drum with a savage stomp on the pedal. With a sneer directed towards John and Yoko, George stood up as well, shouldering his guitar as he jammed along.

As Paul began to sing the words that he had not penned himself, John looked up from Yoko with a startled look on his face, his eyes immediately drawn to Paul’s smirking face.

_I’m so tired, I haven’t slept a wink_   
_I’m so tired, my mind is on the blink_   
_I wonder should I call you and get myself a drink_

_No, no, no, no_

Winking cheekily at John, Paul said, “Lay off the booze, boy.”

With a reluctant grin, John stood and left Yoko sitting on the floor as he joined in, sharing a mic with Paul the way that had so many times before as he sang back-up to his own song.

_I’m so tired, I don’t know what to do, don’t what to do_   
_I’m so tired, my mind is set on you – laughs_   
_I wonder should I call you but I know what you’d do_

_Oh no, no_

_You’d say I’m putting you on_   
_But it’s no joke_   
_It’s doing me harm, you know I can’t sleep_   
_I can’t stop my brain, you know it’s three weeks_   
_I’m going insane_   
_You know I’d give you everything I’ve got_   
_For a little peace of mind_

_I’m so tired, I don’t know what to do,_   
_I’m so tired, my mind is set on you_   
_I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink_

_Oh no, no_

Still grinning, Paul repeated what he had said earlier, “Lay off the booze, boy.”

_You’d say I’m putting you on_   
_But it’s no joke_   
_It’s doing me harm, you know I can’t sleep_   
_I can’t stop my brain, you know it’s three weeks_   
_I’m going insane_   
_You know I’d give you everything I’ve got_   
_For a little peace of mind_   
_You know I’d give you everything I’ve got_   
_For a little peace of mind_   
_Give you everything I’ve got for a little peace of mind_   
_Give you everything I’ve got for a little peace of mind._

As the song came to an end, George let out an involuntary laugh, as Ringo grinned. The atmosphere in the studio changing completely, if only for a brief moment.

John stared at Paul, a smile pulling up at the corners of his mouth as he grumbled half-heartedly, “Cheeky bastard.”

Paul simply gave him an innocent look in return. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answered, smirking.

Shaking his head in amusement, John looked back at him and the two shared a smile that felt natural, completely unlike their interaction as of late. However, in the span of a second that look changed to encompass all the pain and love that had ever been shared between them. John longed to reach out and tuck Paul’s hair behind his hear, but before he could do so, he quickly shook his head and the moment was gone.

Without another glance, John hurried back to Yoko, who put her hand on John’s arm in a proprietary gesture, a defiant look in her eyes that quickly turned to triumph as she stared into Paul’s crestfallen face. After a minute’s silence, Paul turned on his heel and walked out of the studio, leaving his bass still plugged into its amplifier.

Ringo and George exchanged a look as they simultaneously turned towards John and Yoko.

Muttering to themselves, George and Ringo packed up their gear before making their way towards the exit.

“I guess we’re done for the day,” Ringo said under his breath, as he held the door open for George.

With a disgusted look on his face, George gave the two in the corner a fleeting glance before walking out with a shake of his head. “Fucking waste of time.”

As the sound of their footsteps died away, John tore himself away from Yoko for a moment and looked at the closed door, a pained look on his face. Quickly shaking his head, he pushed the lads out of his mind before turning back to Yoko with a forced smile.


	21. The Long and Winding Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Night had fallen and the usual sounds of night permeated the dark and quiet house. If one concentrated hard enough, they could probably hear the sound of a distant car backfiring or perhaps hear a grasshopper chirping in the front lawn, or maybe even the creaking of the house settling down for the night. The light from the streetlamps outside filtered in through the wide windows, bathing the inside with an almost unearthly glow. The usual occupants of the house were either out for the night, or already in bed, giving the place an almost abandoned feeling.

Well, the home was nearly devoid of moving life. Almost, but not quite.

Prowling about the house, John wandered in and out of each and every room, the bespectacled man neglecting to turn on the lights for he knew his way around this particular home as well he had once known his own. Perhaps he knew this one even better.

It had been weeks since John and Yoko had shown up on Paul’s doorstep, seeking refuge with the swaggering knowledge that they would not be turned away. And ignoring Paul’s pained look, the two had set up shop in the downstairs guestroom. But for all his boasting and blustering, John had not set foot in any other part of the house, except for his own living quarters and the kitchen, and he only ventured in there when he was sure that he would not find Paul alone. Any time spent in only Paul’s company had become painful and that pain was not something that he was willing to put himself through.

Tonight, however, John found himself drawn into the house. And upon finding out that Paul would be out all night, he had been on pins and needles the entire day waiting for Yoko to retire for the night. But now, as he wandered around, he began to think that maybe it hadn’t been a good idea for the memories that 7 Cavendish Avenue held were slowly killing him.

And oh, there were so many fucking memories.

As he stepped into the comfortable living room, John’s eyes immediately went to the comfortable sofa, a place where he and Paul had spent so many hours watching television late into the night until they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Of course, what he remembered most were the hours spent necking like a pair of adolescents, or the times they had fucked each other into the soft cushions, breathing fast and hard for hours on end.

As he passed by the dining table, he remembered the times he had sat in one of the straight-back chairs, two cups of tea and a newspaper spread out before him as he waited for Paul to stumble downstairs in the morning.

John almost didn’t want to venture upstairs, but his feet took him there nonetheless.

Wandering down the hallway to Paul’s bedroom, scenes of them groping each other as they leaned up against the wall, eager hands divesting themselves of their clothing as they stumbled towards the open door, kissing and licking the entire way played before his eyes. Taking in a shaky breath, John pushed open the door and he was immediately struck with how different the room now felt.

Gone was the familiar scent of Jane’s perfume, with the underlying hint of his own cologne. Now the room smelt cloying and flowery, overpowering Paul’s own distinct scent. Stylish clothes from Carnaby Street were replaced by the American equivalent, losing something in the translation. Shuddering, John almost turned away, but something on the nightstand caught his eye.

Curiously, John moved into the room, eyes resolutely avoiding the bed as he made his way towards the nightstand. Reaching out, he grasped a small tape, the words “The Long and Winding Road Demo – Sept. 1968” scrawled across a white piece of tape that had been attached. With a surreptitious glance around, John pocketed the object and quickly strode out of the room, taking the necessary steps towards Paul’s work room.

Upon entering the narrow room, John quickly clicked on a light, shaking his head to dispel the memories of the times that they had spent in that room together, usually doing things other than working on music. Walking towards Paul’s audio equipment, John found the right deck and inserted the tape, pressing play as he settled down directly in front of the machine and waited for the audio to begin.

In a matter of seconds, Paul’s voice filled the room, the man giving his usual bossy orders to whoever was in the studio with him. Despite himself, John grinned, but it was soon erased as the sound of a piano and Paul’s singing replaced the domineering tone, the lyrics of the song causing John’s heart to beat painfully.

_The long and winding road_   
_That leads to your door_   
_Will never disappear_   
_I’ve seen that road before_   
_It always leads me here_   
_Lead me to you door_

_The wild and windy night_   
_That the rain washed away_   
_Has left a pool of tears_   
_Crying for the day_   
_Why leave me standing here_   
_Let me know the way_

_Many times I’ve been alone_   
_And many times I’ve cried_   
_Any way you’ll never know_   
_The many ways I’ve tried_

_But still they lead me back_   
_To the long winding road_   
_You left me standing here_   
_A long, long time ago_   
_Don’t leave me waiting here_   
_Lead me to your door_

_But still they lead me back_   
_To the long winding road_   
_You left me standing here_   
_A long, long time ago_   
_Don’t leave me waiting here_   
_Lead me to your door_   
_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_

As the words slowly faded away, a sigh that seemed to be ripped from Paul’s throat issued forth from the speakers and then the tape ended.

With his head in his hands, John sat frozen to the spot as he tried to get his breathing under control. Once the gulps of air had tapered off slightly, John reached forward and rewound the tape before pressing play again.

Hours passed, but John did not move. Instead he continued to listen to the song over and over again.

So engrossed was he that he failed to notice the approaching of dawn. Nor did he hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs and stopping mid-stride in the doorway of the workroom. Then as the chords faded away for the hundredth time, John looked up to see Paul’s stricken face, skin ashen and breathing heavy as the younger man looked at him with panic in his gaze.

Eyes red, John quickly stood and rushed out of the room without a word or another glance. And as the sound of John’s hurried footsteps thundered down the stairs, Paul slid to the floor.


	22. Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Whenever in the midst of recording an album, Abbey Road Studios was in never-ending chaos. People rushed in and out of offices and studios, hangers on parked themselves in the lobby as they sought entrance into the hallowed inner sanctum, and the usual group of girls clutching flowers and the tattered shreds of their dignity loitered outside as they waited for a word or maybe even a smile from one of their heroes.

Brushing past the throng near the entrance, John strode into the building, bundled in a warm coat which He pulled tight around his lithe frame. seeking to escape the autumn chill. For once he was alone, his petite black-haired shadow conspicuously absent. Also quite surprising was the fact that he was grinning happily, rather than looking sulky and unhappy. Walking with a bounce in his step, John sang the opening bars of “Why Don’t We Do it the Road?” to himself, excited that they were scheduled to record that very song that day.

Shaking his head in amusement, John still couldn’t believe that Paul had written a song as controversial as that. It was, after all, more in tune with what people thought of him and completely the opposite of the public persona of “Beatle Balladeer” that Paul had inadvertently cultivated.

A thought came into his mind, that he quickly banished. After all, Paul was still a long way from becoming him!

Wasn’t he?

He couldn’t help but be proud of his former partner, though, the younger man’s song being the first thing to excite him about a recording session in a long time.

So, with grudging respect, John muttered to himself, “This will fucking show them,” a smile turning up the corners of his mouth as he couldn’t help but shake his head in slight amusement.

So, with guitar in hand, John ambled towards Studio Two and entered the control room, startled to see Paul and Ringo on the other side of the glass in the midst of already recording a song. He could hear Ringo’s rhythmic drumming, harsher and brasher than usual, accompanied by the discordant chords coming from the piano.

Standing in the background, John leaned against the wall as he continued to look into the room, noting the absence of George in the session, in addition to his own.

_Why don’t we do it in the road?_  
Why don’t we do it in the road?  
Why don’t we do it in the road?  
Why don’t we do it in the road?  
No one will be watching us  
Why don’t we do it in the road?

With a start, John whipped his towards Paul as his body suddenly straightened from its previously relaxed pose, shivers running down his spine at the harsh sound of Paul’s voice. The younger man’s head was lowered, his eyes fixed on the piano keys as he belted out the lyrics to the song, the words rising from his throat in a husky growl.

Struck by the utter sexuality that his ex-lover emitted, John stood completely awestruck, his eyes unable to move away from the hunched over form. The two words played over and over in his mind, and he winced inwardly at the teenybopper nature of them.

The man was goddamn sexy.

In leather trousers and a leather jacket with guitar slung low across his narrow hips, Paul would’ve been the spitting image of the man that John had fallen in love with so long ago.

Licking his lips, John couldn’t help but wish that Paul was clad in those tight trousers right now.

As Paul sang, he looked and acted more like that angry, ambitious young man whose indelible fire for music had matched John’s and had drawn him in. That same fire that had captivated him for so many years, and had kept John by Paul’s side willingly.

_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_No one will be watching us_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_

Thick locks of dark hair spilled across Paul’s forehead, and John’s fingers ached to reach through the fucking glass and brush them aside. Perhaps place a kiss or two on Paul’s once willing lips. Images of Paul, of himself, of Paul and himself together flashed before his eyes, and he felt himself move closer to the glass, his eyes continuing to drink in Paul’s hunched over form.

The hurt that he had felt upon entering the control room to find Paul and Ringo recording without him had slowly been pushed to the side, the feeling simmering in the background as another rose to the forefront.

Pure, unadulterated lust.

_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_   
_No one will be watching us_   
_Why don’t we do it in the road?_

Suddenly Paul looked up, and instead of looking surprised when he saw John, he looked completely at ease, lips curling into a sexy smirk as desire rose unbidden to his eyes and try as he might, John could not turn away from the naked stare.

It was as if the younger man was beckoning him closer with a simple look.

As the song finally ended, John felt compelled to go down into the studio, but when he turned around, he came face to face with Linda who was standing directly behind him, her gaze locked on Paul’s as she winked at him with a laugh.

Feeling incredibly stupid, he berated himself silently for thinking that Paul had been looking at him and with a muttered curse, he turned towards the glass one last time, only to fine Paul’s defiant stare trained directly on him.

Flushing in embarrassment, John gazed back with a deer in headlights look, his body starting to tremble slightly under the younger man’s unflinching stare.

Smirking, Paul’s hard gaze never left John as he spoke into the mic.

“Happy birthday, John,” he said coldly.

Mortified, the older man quickly turned and left the control room, the door slamming behind him.


	23. Two of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Hot lights bore down upon the occupants of Twickenham Studios, the large drafty room looking more like a multicoloured warehouse with its vibrant walls than a place in which to film a recording session. Lacking the comfortable warmth of the studios in Abbey Road with the wood paneled walls and temperature control, the room that they currently occupied in Twickenham was an utter nightmare. The room was filled with numerous things, a grand piano, a drum set and other percussion instruments, guitars of all shapes and sizes, and hulking film equipment were thrown haphazardly into the room, all of which were dwarfed by the sheer scope of the chamber.

Although recording and filming were underway for the day, the occupants of Twickenham Studios were in varying moods, each pretty much engrossed in whatever was going on in their own little worlds.

Well, all of them except for John that is.

With an irritated look that seemed to be etched into his face permanently, George let out a tired sigh as he gazed about the room absently, itching to stand up and shout “Sod it all!” before making a dramatic exit. However, he was duty bound, so he sat in the corner, virtually ignored by the others.

Ringo, on the other hand, smiled to himself as he made notes in a notebook, putting the finishing touches on a song about octopuses and underwater creatures.

Paul, stood in the middle of their little cluster, acoustic guitar in hand as he belted out the lyrics for a newly written song, his head bobbing in a cruel imitation of his own Mop Top pose, grinning slightly whenever Ringo would look his way.

John, however, sat watching Paul intently, and was clearly the only one even paying attention to the words that the younger man sang.

As Yoko lounged beside him, her little hands clasped in his, she was completely unaware of the fact that John’s attention was focused elsewhere and not on her for a change. The bespectacled man was staring directly at Paul, the sound of the younger man’s voice washing over him as he scrutinized the words.

_Two of us riding nowhere_   
_Spending someone’s hard earned pay_   
_You and me Sunday driving_   
_Not arriving on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way home_   
_We’re going home_

_Two of us sending postcards_   
_Writing letters on my wall_   
_You and me burning matches_   
_Lifting latches on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way home_   
_We’re going home_

_You and I have memories_   
_Longer that that road_   
_That stretches out ahead_

_Two of us wearing raincoats_   
_Standing solo in the sun_   
_You and me chasing paper_   
_Getting nowhere on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way home_   
_We’re going home_

_You and I have memories_   
_Longer that that road_   
_That stretches out ahead_

_Two of us wearing raincoats_   
_Standing solo in the sun_   
_You and me chasing paper_   
_Getting nowhere on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way back home_   
_We’re on our way home_   
_We’re going home_   
_We’re going home_

Once the song was done, Ringo looked up from his notebook. “Not bad, mate,” he commented appreciatively. Curiously, he continued. “About anyone in particular?”

As the smile fell from his bearded face, Paul turned to face John, who held his breath in anticipation, but when Paul finally spoke the answer he gave took the older man by surprise.

Voice gruff, Paul looked straight into John’s eyes and answered simply. “Linda,” he said. “The song is about me and Linda.”

Leaning his guitar atop a pile of cushions that lay by his feet, Paul straightened up and with a low “Excuse me,” he walked away, quickly disappearing behind the double doors.

Looking at the spot where Paul had just stood, Ringo arched an eyebrow at John who simply stared back unemotionally. With a shrug of his shoulders, Ringo went back to his notebook, not noticing John when he abruptly stood up and left the room, leaving a gaping Yoko behind.

After wandering through the hallways for a few minutes, John finally found the restroom, and upon pushing the door open he found Paul bent over the sink, his hands gripping the sides of the white basin.

With a loud slam, John closed the door behind him, causing Paul to look up and catch the irate man’s reflection in the mirror. With red-rimmed eyes devoid of all emotion, Paul stared back, neither man saying a word.

Suddenly, John began to laugh mirthlessly, the sound harsh and foreign even to his own ears.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, Paul?” the older man asked bitterly as he strode into the loo, stopping a scant foot away.

Shrugging his shoulders, Paul turned around, his face set in a cold mask.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Lennon,” he spat out, voice laced with underlying anger.

“Please,” John sneered. “Don’t even try to brush this off.”

“Sorry, John,” Paul replied, shaking his head as he moved forward, attempting to brush past the older man. “But I have no fucking idea what you’re going on about.”

“Linda?” John snapped, as he reached out and grabbed hold of Paul’s forearm, effectively stopping his flight. “The fucking song is about Linda?”

Looking down at where John held him, Paul gritted his teeth before looking up. “Yeah,” he answered. “What of it?”

“Are you fucking joking, mate?” John sneered, as his grip tightened. “Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you were singing about your relationship with her? A woman you barely know?”

Paul avoided John’s eyes for a minute, before looking up with a tired sigh. “Then who do you think the song is about John?” he asked, his voice soft. “Why don’t you tell me?” John replied.

“I already did, didn’t I mate?” Paul replied with a roll of his eyes as he began to pull his arm free.

Suddenly, with no warning whatsoever, John grabbed Paul by the shoulders and pushed him against the wall as his lips descended in a bruising kiss. As one hand tightened around Paul’s shoulder, the other traveled up to the back of Paul’s head, John holding Paul close as he ground his body into the younger man’s, eliciting a moan from both.

Again without warning, John broke away, noting with grim satisfaction the swollen and bruised state of Paul’s lips. Flicking out his tongue to lightly trace Paul’s mouth, he then leaned forward, whispering harshly against the younger man’s ear, “Now, look me in the eye and tell me that that bloody song is about Linda.”

Finally breaking free, Paul brought his hands forward and shoved John away from him, causing the older man to stumble to the ground. Eyes wide, John looked up at Paul as the irate man stood over him, chest heaving as he sought to control his breathing. Hands clenched at his sides, Paul looked down, a slight shiver coursing through John as he caught a glimpse of the anger and pain swirling in Paul’s eyes.

“Get over yourself, Lennon,” the younger man sneered maliciously. “What the fuck did you think? That a show of force was going to make me say what you so desperately want to hear? That you, that we, meant something?” Smirking, Paul continued, derision leaking out of every word that fell from his lips. “It was nothing more than a quick fuck here and there, Johnny. Nothing more and nothing less.”

Turning his back on the sprawled man, Paul moved slowly towards the door as he spoke quietly over his shoulder. “You made your choice, and so, I had to make mine. Learn to deal with it. I had to.”

Then Paul walked out, leaving John broken and beaten on the floor.


	24. I Want You (She’s So Heavy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Filtered daylight entered the nearly deserted manor through the cracks between shutters and through the gauzy curtains that hung from the sprawling windows. The rays gently tiptoed over pieces of furniture that had been covered with white sheets and over dusty appliances and electronics that seemed to have not been used in months. The house, in fact, had only been empty for a week or two, and yet it felt cold and unwelcoming, a characteristic that permeated the home even when it was occupied.

Now, wandering silently through the rooms, John stepped through dust and grime, studiously looking for the remainder of his belongings. After he had been unceremoniously thrown out, Cynthia had done a haphazard job of packing his things, but the boxes had been lacking in certain essentials. However, returning to the house had not been an option. Not then anyway. So, he had waited for Cynthia and Julian to go out of town before venturing into his old home, snatching the spare key that he had kept hidden in the mouth of a green ceramic frog that sat out in the garden, the lock clicking open as he let himself in.

As he searched for his things, a shirt here, a knick knack there, he found himself moving through the house rather dispassionately, not really taking the time to linger. Truth be told, John had never been particularly happy while living at Kenwood, and had spent each day yearning for escape. So, being back here didn’t exactly do anything for his already precarious mindset.

With a tired sigh, John continued going from room to room, getting a long overcoat from the front closet, picking up a small trinket from the main living area that he had picked up in Japan while on tour, slowly amassing an armful of items. After depositing his bundle in an empty box by the front door, John slowly made his way upstairs, ignoring the family pictures and mementos that pertained to his now broken marriage and family as he cleared his things out of the bedroom.

After a short time, John had been into every room, save for one, the one that he dreaded entering the most. So, with a gut wrenching sigh, John went up a narrow flight of stairs, coming upon the door to what was once his favourite room in the entire manor.

His home studio.

A studio that had been put together with painstaking care and love by Paul so many years ago. The younger man had made all of the arrangements, calling up EMI and having them order state-of-the-art audio and video equipment, his eyes lighting up with excitement when he was able to procure a particularly rare piece for the studio. For weeks, John had watched the delivery vans pull up his driveway, each bringing tape decks and stereophonic equipment of varying degrees of technical complexity to his studio.

John had teased Paul, saying that he would soon be looking for excuses to come over, just so he could play with John’s new gadgets, but the younger man had simply rolled his eyes and kissed John soundly on the mouth, responding cheekily that he already had reason enough to visit.

Now as John walked through the room, his eyes lingered on the corner where he and Paul had sat working on songs and his fingers gently caressed the keys of the piano that Paul always played. And try as he might, John could not quell the unbearable pain and sadness that the recollections caused him.

Shaking his head to dispel the images, John walked over to the nearest tape deck, and upon slipping a tape out of his pocket. he inserted it inside. After fiddling with the equipment for a minute, a particularly harsh guitar riff sounded through the speakers, the volume at an earsplitting level. With a sigh, John lowered himself to the ground, his eyes immediately drawn to the large picture that hung on the wall right above his equipment.

A picture of him and Paul.

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

It was a fairly intimate pose, much like the others taken during that session, John resting his chin on Paul’s head, the two looking somberly into the camera. He remembered how giddy the two of them had been, the effects of a joint shared in the loo just before the cameras rolled combined with their close proximity to each other. It had been the best photo shoot that they had ever endured.

But now, as he stared at the picture before him, none of that giddiness remained. In its place was a heavy dose of bitterness over the way that things had gotten so royally fucked up. Now, neither John nor Paul could bear to be in the same room as the other. Any moment that they happened to be together fraught with hostile looks and silences.

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad, babe_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

Head spinning painfully, John lay back on the ground, his eyes closing as a churning feeling took residence in his stomach, his breathing growing increasingly laboured. He tried to forget the pain and to quell the regret, but it was to no avail. The room had weaved an unbreakable spell over his weakened state, caused by the hard comedown from the innumerable drugs he partook in daily. Shaking and shivering, John slowly opened his eyes, his pupils pinpoint and failing to react to the harsh glare of the lights. Hand moving of its own accord, his fingers found a patch of dry red skin on his neck, the fingernails digging in painfully as he sought to alleviate the itching.

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad, babe_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

_She’s so heavy_   
_Heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy_

Flashes of incidents past flew through his head, each recollection causing a wave of nausea to break over him. Illicit fucks and hard kisses interchanged with laughs and affection. A small smile here, a bruising kiss there, year upon year of moments in a relationship that now lay in tattered remains. With a moan, John turned on his side, body curling into a fetal position as he wrapped his arms around himself.

Doubled over in pain, as stomach cramps wracked his body, John quickly sat up as his nose began to run uncontrollably. Wiping it on the sleeve of his jacket, John continued to stare at the photograph, his fingers aching to reach out and touch the face, fingertips running over what he knew was smooth skin.

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad, babe_   
_I want you_   
_You know I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

Running a trembling hand through his hair, John patted the pockets of his jacket, fingers desperately pilfering each compartment. After a moment’s search, the trembling man took a small clear bag, a tiny bundle wrapped in white paper visible inside. With shaking fingers, John opened the packet and grasped the paper package, it slipping from his fingers almost immediately. With a muttered curse, he tried again, this time emptying the contents in his palm.

With a dark look on his face, John opened it out on the floor, spreading the wrinkled paper out to reveal a small mound of white powder. Looking down with an unsure look on his face, John hesitated briefly, eyes alight with fear and self-loathing.

_Yeah, she’s so heavy_   
_Heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy_

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_I want you_   
_I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

As another spasm wracked his body, John resignedly lowered his head, his nose gently nudging the white powder as he snorted some up, and the deadly opiate entered his system. With a shudder and a groan, John lay back down, the effects of the heroin slowly overtaking him. A slow rush of relaxation and well-being infused his body, the physical pain slowly removed as emotional pain faded away. In a drugged out stupor, John continued to lay on the ground, a blank smile on his face as the heroin wiped him clean of all worries and pain, the music continuing to play in the background.

_I want you_   
_I want you so bad, babe_   
_I want you_   
_You know I want you so bad_   
_It’s driving me mad_   
_It’s driving me mad_

_She’s so…_


	25. Oh! Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The water from the showerhead pounded down, tiny droplets of steaming hot liquid beating down with almost painful efficiency. The entire bathroom was steamed up, a haze of thick white fog obscuring the view as it swirled around the rather lavish chamber. Soiled clothes lay in a messy pile on the cool tiled floor, as if the wearer struggled with divesting himself off the clothing and was then too tired to throw them into the hamper. A hot shower had always been a great way to release one’s troubles, to let worries and pain trickle out and get washed away down the drain.

But that was not the case on this day.

Standing under the harsh spray, Paul leaned his forehead against the wall, not heeding the hot water as it struck him, turning the skin a painful red. Willing himself to relax, Paul turned his body so that the water beat against his back, the tension in his shoulders melting away under the assault.

But try as he might, Paul could not erase the scenes from the studio earlier that day.

They had been rehearsing “Oh! Darling,” Paul sharing a mic with John as they both let loose, voices raw with emotion as they belted out the lyrics. Paul had studiously avoided John’s gaze, turning his head so that he stared at a point right above his old mate’s shoulder, stiffening his own neck as he silently willed himself not to give in and turn towards John. Before, sharing a mic had always been the best excuse to stare at each other without anyone being the wiser, but now, the simple act was a cause of awkwardness for the both of them.

With the lads accompanying him, Paul had screamed himself hoarse, trying to get the weathered vocal style that he had been practicing at home the last couple of days, to sound as though he had been singing the song on stage for weeks. He hadn’t quite gotten it yet, but the sound was a definite improvement. He could feel John’s judgmental eyes on him as he sang, as though the older man felt that he could do a better job with the song which only spurred Paul on to greater vocal acrobatics.

As the it ended, the two panted slightly, trying to catch their breath, voices still slightly hoarse from the effort.

With a grin, Paul had accidentally turned towards his old partner, but the words out of John’s mouth stopped him cold.

“Just heard that Yoko’s divorce has just gone through,” the older man said, his voice practically bubbly with happiness and excitement.

Eyes bright, John then erupted into an impromptu version of “Oh! Darling,” replacing Paul’s lyrics with his own.

_Free at last_   
_I’m free_   
_This morning, baby told the lawyer it’s okay_   
_Believe me when I tell you,_   
_I will never do you no harm._

An expression of utter dismay on his face, Paul found himself staring at John’s profile while the other man gazed towards Yoko, an expression of love and adoration written plainly on his visage. Paul had recognized the look well, it was the way that John used to look at him.

His body starting to shake slightly, Paul stumbled forwards, his feet nearly tripping over themselves. The younger man surely would’ve fallen to the ground in a trembling heap, if he hadn’t been caught around the waist, a strong arm wrapping around his body and stilling his downward descent.

Looking up, Paul had found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes, a mixture of happiness and regret swirling within their depths. As the breath caught in the back of Paul’s throat, his body unconsciously moved closer, flush against John’s as the older man’s arm tightened around him.

For a second, it felt like John was going to kiss him, but at the last minute the older man turned away abruptly, his gaze turned towards Yoko as he pulled away from Paul. The younger man couldn’t help the feeling of sadness that washed over him at the loss of contact. So, with a grimace, Paul pulled himself together, squaring his shoulders as he pasted an indifferent look on his face, intent on finishing the recording session without a hitch.

But now as he stood in the shower, lost and alone, the words that he had sung rose to his throat, and in a guttural voice they spilled out. With his head leaning against the slippery wall, one fist rhythmically pounding the solid tiles, he cut a depressing figure of a man who had lost so much. What he had been practicing for days now came naturally, his voice now raw and hoarse and sounding as though his vocal chords were beyond repair.

_Oh! darling, please believe me_   
_I’ll never do you no harm_   
_Believe me when I tell you_   
_I’ll never do you no harm_

_Oh! Darling, if you leave me_   
_I’ll never make it alone_   
_Believe me when I tell you, oooh_   
_Don’t ever leave me alone_

_When you told me_   
_You didn’t need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and cried_   
_When you told me_   
_You didn’t need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and died_

_Oh! Darling if you leave me_   
_I’ll never make it alone_   
_Believe me when I tell you_   
_I’ll never do you no harm_   
_(Believe me darling)_

_When you told me_   
_You didn’t need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and cried_   
_When you told me_   
_You didn’t need me anymore_   
_Well you know I nearly broke down and died_

_Oh! Darling, please believe me_   
_I’ll never let you down_   
_Oh, believe me darling_   
_Believe me when I tell you, oooh_   
_I’ll never do you no harm_

His knuckles now bruised a deep purple, Paul slid to his knees, head resting in his hands as his body shook.


	26. Don’t Let Me Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The sky was a stormy gray, clouds hanging low as a wild wind whipped hair into their eyes. Bundled tight against the cold, the group of people standing on the rooftop of the Apple Corps headquarters stood in huddles, trying their hardest to stay warm. The entire roof had been transformed into a mini stage, wires and electric cords crisscrossing the concrete and posing quite a hazard to those who tried to navigate the area. Solid black amplifiers stood out in contrast to the decidedly more flimsy guitars and drums, the instruments set out for the return of the lads.

Walking from one end of the roof to the other, John pulled his fur coat closer to his body as he puffed on a cigarette, the smoke exhaled from his nose mingling with the white puff of breath from his mouth. Stopping now and again to stare out at the crowd that had assembled below, John smirked as he turned around, coming face to face with the blonde-haired American woman who now stood with her head leaning against Paul’s shoulder, his arm tight around her waist.

The presence of Linda on the roof, as she conversed quietly with Paul and Neil caused a feeling of feeling of repulsion, tempered with anger, to course through his veins. With a disgusted look, he shook his head as he flicked the cigarette butt over the roof before striding over towards Yoko. Throwing a look over at his shoulder towards Paul and Linda, John too wrapped his arms around Yoko’s waist as he leaned in and nuzzled the side of her neck, kissing the soft pale skin.

“John!” Yoko giggled in her girlish, accented voice at John’s sudden affection, the sound of her laugh causing both George and Ringo to grimace simultaneously as they moved towards their instruments.

“Love,” John whispered loudly in her ear, as he turned them both so that he was facing Paul. In a pompous voice, he said, “You look absolutely ravishing.” As he continued to kiss and nibble at the pale column.

“Oh, John,” Yoko laughed again, “What’s gotten into you?”

Continuing to look over at his old mate, John neglected to answer. He felt himself growing increasingly incensed when he realised that Paul paid no attention to him and his antics, the younger man content to simply stand with Linda as they surveyed the crowd below.

Soon, Neil came forward, as he waved Paul and John over to their instruments.

“Come along lads,” Neil called out. “Let’s give this song a go.”

With a grimace, John watched Paul as he gave Linda a lingering kiss before bounding over to his bass with an irrepressible grin, a grin that just made John’s scowl more pronounced. With a glare towards the younger man, John shouldered his guitar as he looked down at the crowded streets, contemplating the drop and if it would be wrong to shove Paul over the edge.

Smirking, John shook his head to expel the idea and with a half smile he towards Yoko before turning to his mic, Paul counting down as he was often wont to do. With a sneer, John angled his body towards Paul, his hard gaze locking at the slightly surprised look on his mate’s face as he belted his lyrics out.

_Don’t let me down_   
_Hey, don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_

Sneering slightly, John continued to sing in a throaty voice, tensions running high as he put every bit of heart and soul into the delivery of the rest of the song.

_Nobody ever loved me like she does_   
_Oo she does, yes she does_   
_And if somebody loved me like she do me_   
_Oo she do me, yeah she does_

Paul’s face paled considerably at the words, his eyes dropping as he tore his gaze away from John. Though he chimed in on the harmony, Paul’s voice lacked its usual enthusiasm, instead holding a note of hurt bitterness that only John caught.

_Don’t let me down_   
_Hey, don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_

_I’m in love for the first time_   
_Don’t you know it’s gonna last_   
_It’s a love that lasts forever_   
_It’s a love that had no past_

Looking as though he had been slapped in the face, Paul’s eyes darted from side to side, at first unable and unwilling to look at John, causing the old man to almost laugh mockingly. A thread of regret coursed through John’s body, but he soon quelled the traitorous feeling as he thought of Paul and Linda, and the loving way that they held each other causing jealousy to flare up again.

_Don’t let me down_   
_Hey, don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_

_And from the first time that she really done me_   
_Oo she done me, she done me good_   
_I guess nobody ever really done me_   
_Oo she done me, she done me good_

Suddenly, after many futile attempts, Paul looked over at John, a combination of hurt and anger melting into indifference. With the wind still stirring in the air, the two men stared at each other as they continued to sing, neither able to look away. John’s smirk melted away into apathy as he took in Paul’s stony expression, a slight twinge of hurt, betrayal, and anger, flickering to life in John’s chest.

Then Paul sneered, anger flaring up in his eyes as he turned away, his shoulders stiff as he went through the motions of playing, the joy of performing again in front of an audience leeching out of him.

_Don’t let me down_   
_Hey, don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_

_I’m in love for the first time_   
_Don’t you know it’s gonna last_   
_It’s a love that lasts forever_   
_It’s a love that had no past_

_Don’t let me down_   
_Hey, don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_   
_Don’t let me down_   
_Hey hey ah_   
_Don’t let me down_

As the song came to an end, John let out a shaky sigh, his curtain of hair obscuring his view as he pushed his glasses over his nose. Shoulders slumping somewhat dejectedly, he watched Paul as he placed his guitar on the ground and bounded towards Linda, throwing his arms around her as he lifted her off the ground, the blonde laughing happily.

With a sneer, Paul looked over her shoulder straight at John, imbibing as much hatred into that look as he possibly could, causing the older man to quickly look away as he pulled an empty cigarette carton out of his pocket. With a disdainful look, he threw it over the side of the roof, watching the empty cardboard box plummet to the ground before stalking towards Yoko.


	27. Dear Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

It had rained the previous night, bathing the countryside in a watery glow, little puddles underfoot as various animals made the rounds, their tiny hooves splashing up the sparkling rainwater. It was dusk, and yet the sky was awash in colour, rain and wind having cleared the space above. So, the vibrant beauty of a Scottish day slowly melted into the darkness of night creating a perfect snapshot of the meeting of both worlds.

Strolling the land, Paul soaked in the atmosphere, the still quiet calming him. With a smile, he watched the interplay of his animals, the sheep running wild as his dog Martha gently barked to keep them in line. The quiet, however, was short-lived as the roar of an engine broke the silence, causing the animals to scurry away as Paul looked over towards the dirt road, eyes curious.

Soon an unfamiliar car rounded the bend, the once gleaming body now splattered with mud, with the occasional bit of foliage stuck to the side. Paul squinted his eyes and attempted to peer in, but the tinted glasses made it close to impossible to see who was driving at such a breakneck speed. As suddenly as the automobile appeared, it stopped in front of Paul’s cottage, the engine cut abruptly and returning silence to the air, albeit a slightly tense one.

Incensed, Paul stalked up to the car, intent on giving the mystery driver a piece of his mind, when the door opened and a very familiar amber head poked out, causing Paul to stop dead in his tracks, mouth falling open.

Angry look on his face, John stepped out the car, slamming the door violently behind him before he turned around. Seeing Paul’s gawking face made John falter slightly, the enraged expression slipping briefly to reveal a look that was a mixture of hurt and something else that Paul just couldn’t put his finger on. But then with a shake of his head, the older man stalked forward, an album clutched tightly in his hands.

The two men stood in silence for what felt like a long time before John finally spoke.

Or rather, yelled.

“What the fuck is the meaning of this?” John shouted, his voice ringing out into the cool air.

“Hello John, love,” Paul answered sarcastically, his eyes glinting with a hint of anger. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Don’t fucking give me that,” John spat, as he took a step forward threateningly. “What gives you the fucking right to do this to me?”

Unable to stop the roll of his eyes, Paul stood his ground. “Well, John,” he began in a sardonic tone. “I can’t exactly answer your bloody question if I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

With an angry glare John held up the album in his hand and when Paul’s eyes fell on the very familiar cover, a smirk curled up his lips. As John started to look even angrier, Paul quickly wiped the smirk off his face, as he turned an innocent look on his once partner.

“I see you have a copy of my album,” Paul said with an annoying grin. “If I had known that you were a fan of my music, I would’ve sent you a signed copy personally.”

With a sneer, John shot back, his eyes glinting. “Please,” he scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I try not to make a habit out of listening to pure shite.”

Shoulders stiffening, Paul willed himself not to respond, the younger man not allowing himself to react to John’s biting words. So, in a cold voice, Paul answered, “Why the fuck are you here, John?”

Taking another step closer, John snapped, “I am here because of your fucking songs, Paul. I don’t appreciate being fucking abused on record.”

Face blank, Paul replied with a shrug, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t!” John yelled, nerve pulsing in his forehead. “You knew exactly what you were fucking doing when you wrote these songs.”

With a harsh laugh, Paul suddenly spoke. “Again,” he began scathingly. “Your utter arrogance fucking astounds me. What makes you think that I’d waste my time and energy writing bloody songs about you?”

Flipping the album over, John jabbed his finger towards one small picture in the corner.

“Well, this tipped me off for starters,” John snapped.

Leaning in, Paul stared at the picture that had angered John so much, and the younger man couldn’t help the smile that twitched his lips.

It was a picture of a beetle screwing another beetle.

Looking down, John caught Paul’s smile and scowled causing the younger man’s grin to widen as he straightened up.

“Well, yeah,” Paul stuttered as he tried to hold in a laugh. “That is quite… umm.. something, isn’t it?”

Glowering, John took another step forward, “I’m warning you, McCartney…”

“Oh come on, John!” the younger man replied with a laugh. “Even you have to admit that that’s funny.”

Looking down at the picture again, a reluctant smile curled John’s lips, Paul looking back at him with sparkling eyes.

“Well…” John trailed off, as he shook his head in resignation. “I was pretty fucking surprised that you’d put something like that on here. Such a bold move is very out of character for you.”

Grinning, Paul rocked back on his heels, “Yeah, well,” he said with a smile. “I’ve learned from the best.”

They shared a silent grin, the two simply staring at each other before John turns away, his eyes falling to the album in his hands and his look immediately soured.

“What about the fucking songs, Paul?” John asked quietly, when he spoke again. “You can’t fucking deny that you were trying to get in a dig at me and Yoko.”

With a hard look, Paul simply stared back silently.

Regaining his momentum, John’s face flushed as he glared up at Paul, tension seeping into both men as they stared each other down. “Would you like me to recite some choice lyrics, Paul?” John bit out, as he fished a crumpled up piece paper out of his coat pocket. Clearing his throat, the older man recited, “Too many people sharing party lines, too many people ever sleeping late. Too many people paying parking fines, too many hundred people losing weight,” now that’s from the lovely ditty named ‘Too Many People.’” Folding the paper over, John continued. “Now, how about a few words from the song ‘3 Legs?’” Clearing his throat dramatically, John read, “Well, when I thought, well, I thought, when I thought you was my friend. When I thought, well, I thought, when I thought you was my friend. But you let me down, put my heart around the bend.”

Paul simply remained silent, staring back at John defiantly as the older man looked up at him again. With a look of fury, John started to advance, almost as if he was stalking his prey, but Paul stood his ground, refusing to give an inch.

As John came closer, Paul could feel the older man’s breath on his face as he spoke, the words brittle and angry, eyes flashing dangerously.

“What about the song, ‘Dear Boy,’ Paul?” John whispered angrily. “Can you fucking admit that that song isn’t about me?”

Softly, he began to sing as Paul tried not to show his surprise at the fact that John knew all the lyrics.

_I guess you never knew,_   
_Dear boy, what you had found,_   
_I guess you never knew,_   
_Dear boy, that she was just the cutest thing around._   
_I guess you never knew what you had found,_   
_Dear boy._

_I stepped in, my heart was down and out,_   
_But her love came through and brought me ’round,_   
_Got me up and about._

_I guess you never saw,_   
_Dear boy, that love was there,_   
_And maybe when you look too hard,_   
_Dear boy, you never do become aware._

_I guess you never did become aware, Dear Boy._   
_When I stepped in, my heart was down and out,_   
_But her love came through and brought me ’round,_   
_Got me up and about._

_I hope you never know, dear boy,_   
_How much you missed, And even when you fall in love,_   
_Dear boy, it won’t be half as good as this_   
_I hope you never know how much you missed, dear boy._

_I stepped in, my heart was down and out,_   
_But her love came through and brought me ’round,_   
_Got me up and about._   
_Dear boy, how much you missed._

_As soon as he was done, John backed away, his eyes never leaving Paul’s face as he did so._

“Don’t fuck with me, McCartney,” the older man threatened. “You won’t like the outcome if you do.”

Then dropping the album, John stalked back to his car and slipped inside. With a squeal of tires and without so much as a backwards glance, John sped off into the night, leaving Paul to stare back after him.


	28. How Do You Sleep?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Dark and somewhat quiet, the narrow work room at the top of the stairs seemed completely empty. As a matter of fact, the entire house located at 7 Cavendish Avenue in St. John’s Wood, London seemed completely deserted. Once the main meeting place before and after a Beatles recording session, the house had become a lost haven, empty most of the time as its owners lived elsewhere, away from the hustle and bustle of London Life.

Now, however, Paul sat cross-legged on the plush carpeting of his home studio, blank gaze staring out into the distance as a song played over and over again in the background. But after the 10th time hearing it, Paul ceased paying close attention to the lyrics. The words had already been ingrained into his mind. If only he had known what the contents of the box held before he had opened it. Otherwise he would’ve simply chucked it away when he stumbled over it that morning.

He had dropped by his old home early that day, intending to stay a night or two while he attended to business in London. Memories surfacing with each step that he took, Paul had unlocked the front door and stepped into the house, immediately tripping over a slim package that had been pushed through the mail slot.

Surprised, Paul had knelt down and picked it up, the flat box light in his palm as he dropped his luggage by the door and strode to the kitchen, package still in hand.

After putting a kettle on the stove for tea, the dark-haired man lowered himself into a chair, staring at the box for a minute as it stood on the table in front of him. Finally, with a sigh, Paul leaned forward and grasped the box in his hands, fingers nimbly tearing it open. Paul’s eyes widened slightly when he took in the contents of the box, a tape and a handwritten note. Recognizing the writing immediately, Paul rolled his eyes as he reached for the single sheet of paper, a slight frown furrowing his brow as he read the slanted words.

_Paul,_

_Had a perfectly lovely time in the studio today. We did all sorts of things, recorded new songs, wrote a few new ones, and just had a fucking grand time. Wish you were here, mate. The new LP comes out in a few months, and seeing as how you’re such a great friend of mine, I thought that you were entitled to a first listen, or so to speak. So, here’s a demo of the song that we all recorded today._

_Be sure to drop me a line once you’ve listened to the track. I would really love to know what you think._

_Ta!_

_Yours truly,  
John_

_P.S. George says hi._

With a sigh, Paul had then stood, his hand running through his longish hair as he fixed himself a cup of tea, eyes continuously darting over to the mysterious tape. As he messily poured milk into the cup and spooned in the sugar, he couldn’t take his eyes off the table, fragments of thoughts flitting through his mind at an alarming rate.

“Should I listen to the bloody thing or not?” Paul muttered to himself, indecision marring his features. “It couldn’t fucking hurt, now could it? I mean, it’s only a song, right?”

Knowing that whatever was on the tape could in fact hurt a hell of a lot, Paul battled internally with himself, the mug of tea cooling in his hands as he continued to stare at the offending object. Finally, curiosity overpowered all sense of self-preservation, and Paul gulped down the now cold tea with a grimace before snatching the tape off the table and bounding up the stairs.

His interest in the tape grew with every step that he took, and the last few steps to the room had been taken at a light jog. As he entered his work room, the dark-haired man panted slightly from exertion and anticipation. With a slight frown, Paul had then inserted the tape into one of his many tape decks and pressed play, the sound of a biting guitar riff filling the room as he settled himself on the floor in front of the speakers.

His inquisitive look had faded fast once the lyrics hit his ear, as it was soon replaced by a look of horror that quickly melted into distress.

_So Sgt. Pepper took you by surprise_   
_You better see right through that mother’s eyes_   
_Those freaks was right when they said you was dead_   
_The one mistake you made was in your head_   
_Ah, how do you sleep?_   
_Ah, how do you sleep at night?_

The harsh words came fast and hard, John’s delivery an emotional growl that spoke of revenge. Wincing at the tone, a voice in the back of his head begged him to stop the tape, but a stronger, masochistic side forbade him.

_You live with straights who tell you you was king_   
_Jump when your momma tell you anything_   
_The only thing you done was yesterday_   
_And you probably pinched that bitch anyway!_   
_Ah, how do you sleep?_   
_Ah, how do you sleep at night?_

_Ah, how do you sleep?_   
_Ah, how do you sleep at night?_

_A pretty face may last a year or two_   
_But pretty soon they’ll see what you can do_   
_The sound you make is muzak to my ears_   
_You must have learned something in all those years_   
_Ah, how do you sleep?_   
_Ah, how do you sleep at night?_

After the song ended the first time, Paul rewound it and played it again.

And again.

And again.

As the song had washed over him each consecutive time, he had grown increasingly immobile. All emotion leaching out of him as an indifferent look settled on his face, the only indication that he was a living and breathing human being the violent twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Paul had shut himself off, trying with every ounce of his being to not let the song effect him, to not let the biting words hurt him.

But they had.

And they hurt more than he could even comprehend.

And so, now, Paul sat, that damned song continuing to play in the background as the light outside dimmed and heralded night. As the song ended, Paul suddenly stood and quickly shut the player off. His lips tight and stretched thin, Paul pulled the tape out of the deck, standing there in the dark room as he felt the tape burn into his hand.

Then with a look of absolute calm, Paul hurled the tape against the wall, watching with grim satisfaction as it shattered.


	29. Jealous Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Despite the low temperatures outside, the radio studio was delightfully warm, a beacon of heat to those seeking to escape the snow that whirled through the crowded New York streets. Comfy sofas took up one side of the room, its walls covered in signed pictures of various musicians, grinning faces behind clear glass. Stacks of albums graced a nearby table and a huge control board took up most of the room, replete with switches, knobs, various volume gauges, and a few microphones, two of which were occupied at the moment.

Sitting hunched over in a padded stool was Paul, his feet dangling a few inches above the ground as he spun absently from side to side, headphones planted firmly over his ears. The DJ sat by, chewing on a piece of gum as he gave rapid fire directions to the studio staff, his gregarious voice still the same husky tone that it had been throughout his illustrious career. With a tired sigh, Paul straightened up as a commercial played over the airwaves, silent save for the low squeaking of his chair.

Soon the commercial break ended and the DJ turned to Paul with a smile, as he spoke into the microphone.

“This is WNBC with Murray the K!” Murray boomed into the mic, glancing at Paul with an excited grin. “And here with us today is a special guest who needs no introduction. Say hey to the listeners, Paul.”

Leaning forward gingerly, Paul spoke as he mustered as much excitement as he could. “Hey New York!” he half mumbled, eliciting a raised eyebrow from his old chum.

“Paul!” the older man admonished. “You don’t sound quite on the ball this morning. Long flight?”

Rubbing his face, Paul treated the man with a tired sigh as spoke, “Sorry, mate,” he apologized. “Sorry, New York. I flew in from London early this morning and I hate to admit that I’m a bit jetlagged at the moment.”

Clasping the younger man on the shoulder, Murray replied, “No worries, buddy. We all have those days. I promise we won’t be long.” Turning towards his assistant, he continued. “Coffee for the guest, Bob!” he ordered jovially.

As Bob scurried away, Murray swiveled his chair so that he was facing the tired ex-Beatle, a comforting smile on his face that made Paul feel a bit more at home.

“So, Paul, let’s get right into it then,” the DJ began in a more businesslike fashion. “Word on the street is that you have a new band together. Can you tell us more about it?”

Perking up slightly, Paul sat up, his eyes glinting with a touch of eagerness. “You heard right, Murray. I just got a few old friends together, and one thing led to another. When we started playing for a lark it seemed to work well. So, here we are.”

Shuffling around some papers, Murray asked, “And the name ‘Wings,” how did that come about?”

Sobering slightly, Paul’s eyes dropped to his lap as he answered quietly, “Well, while Linda was giving birth to our daughter Stella a few complications rose up. And well,” Paul said with a slight roll of his eyes. “I’ve never been a religious man, but I was in the waiting room praying to anyone and anything that would listen.” Taking a deep breath, Paul continued with a smile, “Well, needless to say, things worked out and the image of wings that came to mind as I was praying fervently just stuck.” With a laugh, he said, “We like to say that Stella was born on an angel’s wings.”

Smiling indulgently, Murray patted Paul on the shoulder as he spoke into his mic, “Gear story, mate,” he commented with a wink, which elicited a laugh from Paul.

“God, I cant’s believe you still remember all that,” Paul said with a shake of his head. “You seemed like you were from an entirely different planet back then! We didn’t know what to make of you. “

Laughing Murray said, “And you didn’t seem to understand half of what I said either.”

The two men laughed companionably, as memories of their first encounter in 1964 rose to their minds.

With a disbelieving look on his face, Paul leaned back slightly as he smirked at the excitable DJ. “Seems like ages ago, doesn’t it?” he asked.

Laughing into the mic, Murray agreed, “That it does, mate.” Then head cocked to the side, Murray asked tentatively, “So, have you spoken to the other Beatles recently?”

An immediate change came over Paul, the cheerful smile leaving his face as an impassive expression dropped over his face.

“We’re not Beatles anymore, Murray,” Paul replied, his voice calm and unemotional.

“Right, right. Sorry,” the older man answered hurriedly.” But have you seen the other boys?”

With a shrug, Paul answered, “Not for a while, actually.”

Disappointed, Murray leaned back, as he regarded the younger man with a hopeful look in his eyes.” Do you think there’s a chance that you four will ever work together again?”

“You know, Murray,” Paul replied as he ducked his head for a brief moment. Then, with anger in his eyes, Paul raised his eyes, looking at Murray straight on as he continued. “At this point I just don’t see it happening.”

With a look of understanding, Murray nodded slowly as he replied, “Of course, of course. What with you and John feuding and all that.” The older man then leaned forward curiously. “Speaking of which,” he began. “Have you given John’s new album “Imagine” a listen? There are quite a few…”

Paul gritted his teeth as he interrupted the DJ abruptly. “Murray, I don’t mean to be rude,” he said in a tight voice, “but I’d rather not talk about that right now.”

Murray raised his hands in surrender as he responded in an apologetic voice. “Of course, of course,” he murmured. Then with a cheerful voice he said, “Well, how about we go to the phones?”

With a flourish, the DJ pressed a glowing red button on the control panel as he spoke into the mic, “Hi, you’re on the air with Murray the K and Paul McCartney. What can we do for you?”

The speaker on the other end cleared his throat loudly, prompting an amused look to pass between Paul and Murray.

Finally, a nasally, thick Irish accent came through the speakers. “Oh, sorry,” the man said, though from the tone of his voice one could clearly tell that he was not sorry at all. “Hi Murray, hi Paul.”

With an odd look on his face, Paul sat forward intently, looking as though the voice triggered something in his mind.

“Why does that voice sound so familiar?” Paul muttered to himself as he greeted the man guardedly.

“Hey, buddy,” Murray greeted back. “And what’s your name?”

“Lenny,” the man answered, prompting Paul’s eyes to widen slightly.

“Well, Lenny,” the DJ said as he sat back expectantly. “Do you have a question for Paul?”

“Actually, no” came the reply. “I have a song dedication that I’d like to make.”

Raising his eyebrows, Murray answered back in a slightly put out voice. “Well, this isn’t exactly the time for that,” he grumbled slightly. But after a moment’s thought, the man continued. “Well, all right, I guess. What can we play for you?

“I’d like to request the song “Jealous Guy” to my friend James,” the Irish voice quietly. With a deep breath, the man then continued in a rush. “Because sometimes talking is too hard and you need a song to convey what you really want to say.”

With a sideways glance towards Paul, Murray responded rather nervously. “You do realise that Paul McCartney is on the air right now, right? And not John Lennon?”

Lenny simply replied with an, “I know.”

Turning towards the other man, Murray leaned towards him as he placed a hand on Paul’s knee. “You okay with this Paul?” Murray whispered as he covered the mic with his other hand.

Paul shrugged in response.

With a nod, Murray turned back towards the mic as he said, “All right, Lenny, here’s your song. Anything else we can do for you?”

“No, I’m all right. Thanks, Murray,” Lenny replied. And then in a soft voice with no trace of the Irish accent, he said softly, “Bye, Paul.”

“Okay,” Murray said, with a shake of his head. “We’ll be back after ‘Jealous Guy.’”

He then placed the album on the turntable and as the song filled the room as Murray flipped off the microphones.

“Now, that was fucking odd,” Murray commented with a wry grin as he stood and stretched. “Wait a second,” Murray said suddenly as he looked around. “Your coffee never came! Damn that Bob. I’ll be right back.” As he stalked out of the studio, Murray grumbled to himself, “Of all the incompetent…”

But Paul wasn’t paying attention. Sitting on that uncomfortable stool, Paul leaned forward as he concentrated on the song, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.

_I was dreaming of the past._   
_And my heart was beating fast,_   
_I began to lose control,_   
_I began to lose control,_

_I didn’t mean to hurt you,_   
_I’m sorry that I made you cry,_   
_I didn’t want to hurt you,_   
_I’m just a jealous guy._

_I was feeling insecure,_   
_You night not love me any more,_   
_I was shivering inside,_   
_I was shivering inside._

_I was trying to catch your eyes,_   
_Thought that you were trying to hide,_   
_I was swallowing my pain,_   
_I was swallowing my pain._

As the song ended, Murray rushed back in, a harried looking Bob following him with a cup of coffee as Paul sat back, looking more relaxed than he had all morning.


	30. Let Me Roll It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Sunlight shimmered through the newly washed windows, the rays illuminating the stark white furniture in the large apartment. Skies blue and clear for once, with the slightest hint of smog, it was a rather average New York day. The windows were closed to the sounds outside, blocking the sounds of street merchants hawking their wares, the incessant beeping of horns, and the sounds of commuters screaming at the traffic and at each other.

Sitting on the windowsill with unlit cigarette twirling in his hand, John peered down below. His eyes drooped behind his round glasses and his mouth turned downward, painting the picture of a very sulky overgrown kid. Grumbling to himself, John slid off the sill as he stomped his way towards the kitchen, the sound of him slamming drawers and cupboards loud in the quiet flat.

“Bloody, Yoko,” John cursed under his breath as he slammed a mug down on the counter and searched for the box of Lipton tea in the pantry. “Why does she always have to make everything such a fucking big deal?”

Not finding the tea, John threw the mug into the sink, ignoring the sound of breaking ceramic as he pulled a bottle of beer out of the fridge, the irate man twisting the cap off and flicking it onto the polished tile floors before stalking back into the living room and throwing himself onto a plush white sofa. With a sour look on his face, John tried not to dwell on the fight that he and Yoko had had earlier that morning, resulting in her packing a bag and stalking out of the house. Things had been pretty bad lately, and they were getting progressively worse. So, with a sigh, John closed his eyes and tried to forget for a while.

Sitting up, John’s finger searched for the television remote, his finger reaching across the sofa. His quest, however, was suddenly preempted as the buzzer at the front door sounded. So, with a scowl, John vaulted off the sofa and stomped his way back across the room, jabbing the intercom with a vengeance,

“Ow!” he yelped as his finger connected with the plastic. Shaking his finger as it throbbed painfully, John pressed his shoulder against the intercom as he barked a hostile, “What?”

Stammering on the other end, the concierge replied, “There’s someone here to see you, sir.”

Growling, John snapped, “Tell them to fuck off.”

“But… sir…” the man said in a high-pitched voice. “He really needs to see you.”

“What part of ‘Fuck off’ did you not understand?” John ground out, his patience non-existent.

“I understand, sir,” the concierge answered nervously. “But I really believe that you should see this man, sir. He’s a very important figure.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me who I should and should not allow into my home?” John bellowed angrily, his shoulders tense. “If I say that I don’t want to see anybody, then I don’t want to see anybody.” Taking a deep breath, John finished with a growled, “So kindly tell my visitor to piss off. I won’t be disturbed today.”

Then with a grimace, John stalked to the kitchen, yanked the freezer open aggressively and stuck his aching finger into the cold. Waiting for the pain to subside, John heard the buzzer sound again. Looking incredibly pissed off, John slammed the freezer door closed and stomped back towards the front door, beating into the buzzer as he barked, “Didn’t I fucking say that I wasn’t to be disturbed?”

In response, a meek voice replied, “Package for you at the front desk, sir.”

With a roll of his eyes, John ground out, “Have it sent up.”

“Yes, sir.”

With a tired sigh, John ran his hand over his face, as he slid to the ground. With his back resting against the wall, John pulled his knees to his chest as he stared at the far wall dejectedly. Suddenly a timid knock at the door broke him out of his reverie, and upon opening it he found a flat package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string with a note pinned to the front left on his front step. With a sardonic grin, John picked up the light parcel and closed the door, knowing immediately what was inside from its weight and dimensions.

Gaze focused on the package in his hands, John stumbled towards the kitchen table, putting it down before ripping the paper away, John unpinned the note, his face falling as he perused its contents.

_John,_

_Fucking hell, mate. I’d wager that it’s harder to see you than it is to see the bloody Pope. Well, I had been hoping to present this to you in person, but seeing as how you’re clearly indisposed at the moment, leaving it for you seemed to be the best course of action._

_Anyway, let me know what you think. Especially the fifth track._

_I’m staying at the Plaza Hotel for the next few days, so, whenever you get your head surgically removed from your ass, give me a call. I’ve checked in under Apollo C. Vermouth._

_Cheers,  
Paul_

With a groan, John let the note fall to the table as he looked at the parcel apprehensively. Finally, with a sigh, John ripped the paper away, revealing a glossy black album cover with the picture of a group of people cowering under a searchlight. With a small grin, he picked Paul out of the lineup, his fingers instinctively moving towards the small face, tips gently tracing the smooth lines.

With a shake of his head, John slipped the black disc out of its sleeve and made his way towards the living room, gently placing the LP on a small turntable situated in one corner of the room. Switching a few dials back and forth, John found the fifth song on the album, slightly puzzled by the title as he looked at the back of the record sleeve. The sound of a guitar riff soon filled the room as he sunk to the floor, sitting cross-legged on the carpet between the television and the turntable.

_You gave me something, I understand,_   
_You gave me loving in the palm of my hand_   
_I can’t tell you how I feel_   
_My heart is like a wheel_   
_Let me roll it_   
_Let me roll it to you_   
_Let me roll it_   
_Let me toll it to you_

_I want to tell you_   
_And now’s the time_   
_I want to tell you that_   
_You’re going to be mine_

_I can’t tell you how I feel_   
_My heart is like a wheel._   
_Let me roll it_   
_Let me roll it to you_   
_Let me roll it_   
_Let me roll it to you_

The arrangement was sparse but concise making the impact of the lyrics that much stronger. Grinning slightly, John couldn’t help but notice that the style of the song mimicked his own, the harsh minimalist guitars coupled with guttural lyrics.

And boy, the lyrics!

He couldn’t help but smirk at the slightly raunchy tone of the second line, his mind quickly flying back to years past and the specific events that that line recalled. With a shake of his head, John stood, allowing the record to continue playing as he made his way towards the telephone. Lifting the receiver, he immediately dialed information.

Upon getting connected to the Plaza Hotel he said, “Apollo C. Vermouth’s room, please.”


	31. Stand By Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Lovely beach house though it was, the place had become a veritable dump. One could not take two steps without encountering a prone figure lying amidst the half-empty beer bottles, whole and in fragments, cigarette butts and half-finished joints, piles of ash, and other unidentifiable objects. The tabletops, fared no better, the once glossy wood coated with a white powdery residue.

Was it cocaine? Was it heroin? Was it a deadly combination of the two? Or was it something different all together?

As Paul and Linda gingerly stepped into the house well past noon, they were slightly amused and appalled at the state of things, Linda looking up at her husband with an expression of disgust as Paul just shrugged sheepishly in response.

“I can’t believe you brought me here,” the blonde hissed, as she winced at the sight of a man lying precariously close to a shattered bottle.

“Come on, Linda,” Paul began pleadingly as he turned towards her and places both hands on Linda’s shoulders. “It’ll be all right. We’ll have fun.”

Rolling her eyes, Linda pointedly gazed around the room before raising an eyebrow at her husband’s hopeful face. “Fun?” she said, imbibing each letter with sarcasm.

Beseeching her with puppy dog eyes, Paul begged, “Please, Linda. Please. For me?”

With a sigh, the blonde finally relented. “Oh fine, I suppose I can endure this place for a couple of hours.”

Smiling, Paul leaned forward to kiss Linda quickly, but the arrival of another person made him pull back.

“Paul! Linda!” the voice boomed with chemically enhanced excitement. “So happy that you could make it.

Turning, Paul and Linda faced the half-baked smile of John, who strode towards them with both hands in his trouser pockets. Clasping his old mate on the shoulder, the suddenly charming man turned to look at Linda as he spoke.

“Excuse the mess, won’t you? But what can you do when you have about a dozen people here at all times,” he apologized with a shrug. “So, Macca,” he said as he turned to face Paul. “Ready to get in the studio today?”

Somewhat surprised by the gracious welcome, Paul stood silent for a second, failing to notice that he had been spoken to until Linda elbowed him in the stomach. Hard.

Glaring down at the woman, Paul rubbed now bruised skin as he answered with a tight smile, “Of course.”

“And to make the day go by a bit easier,” John said as he turned back towards Linda, rifling in his pockets for a second before pulling out a joint. “For you, my lady. And of course, you’ll find more of those if you head on in there,” John continued as he gestured towards a semi-darkened room in the corner.

Eyes brightening, Linda snatched the joint from John’s hand as she treated him to a smile. “Thanks, John. How thoughtful of you.”

Grinning beatifically back, John responded, “Never can it be said that I don’t take care of my guests. Well, Paul and I better head into the studio, the others are waiting for us. I think you’ll find May out on the beach.”

“Thanks, John,” the blonde replied before reaching up to give Paul a quick kiss, waving at the two men before disappearing between the French windows that led outside.

As soon as the woman left, the two men fell into a silence, John looking at Paul with a grin as the younger man looked back with a bemused look on his face. Shaking his head, Paul finally spoke.

“You’re fucking loaded, aren’t you?” he asked, smirking.

“What?” the older man replied, aghast. “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Paul drawled. “You’ve been nice to me, and you were fucking nice to Linda. You could even say charming. Now that has never happened before.”

Suddenly glaring, John dropped his hand from Paul’s shoulder, “Well,” he ground out. “Would you prefer that I wasn’t under the influence of numerous illegal substances then?”

Shaking his head quickly, Paul raised his palms in a placating gesture. “Fuck no!” he exclaimed. “I’d rather you were nicely toasted and a perfect gentleman over sober and a prick any day.”

Grinning again, John patted Paul on the back, “Good to hear, mate. So, keep the drugs coming or else there will definitely be hell to pay.” Turning around, the older man gestured the younger man to follow him as he began to stride towards the other side of the house. “Come ‘ead. We have work to do.”

Speeding up, Paul caught up to John as they walked silently towards the studio, walking through rooms that increased in their degree of destruction. Finally stopping in front of an unassuming door, John stopped, causing the younger man to hurl into his back. Turning around put John in very close proximity to Paul, their faces an inch from each other which would’ve prompted Paul to take a step back but instead he stood his ground.

With a sly look, John placed a joint in front of Paul’s face as he said seriously, “Sorry, no one is allowed in there unless they’re in the same state of mind as the rest of us.”

Grinning Paul plucked the reefer out of John’s fingers and placed it between his lips as John flicked on a lighter for him. After taking a long drag, Paul passed it over to John, the two making quick work of it before entering the dimly lit studio.

The sound of chunky piano chords filled the room, accompanied be the strains of a faint guitar and the toot of a saxophone, as Paul and John strolled in. Sitting behind the piano, Stevie Wonder looked up briefly with a smile as he continued to play assorted chords, with Harry Nilsson and Jesse Ed Davis seated near him, electric guitars parked in their laps. In a distant corner, with saxophone to his lips, Bobby Keys gave them a cheery wave.

“Hey boys,” Harry greeted, in a slur as he continued to play.

“Lads,” Paul replied with a nod, as he walked towards the unoccupied drum set.

“Good to see you again, Paul,” Harry replied with a spacey smile. “So, what are we playing today?”

Without exchanging a word or a look, both Paul and John answered “Stand By Me” simultaneously. The two men then turned their heads towards each other, twin looks of shock etched into their faces as their eyes met. Then slowly, their lips turned up in identical smirks, before they each turned away with a slight nod.

Stepping up the to the mic, John intoned, “Right. Let’s do twelve part harmony to ‘Stand By Me.’”

The thumping of a bass sounded in the spacious studio, as Paul started to hit the cymbals with light taps, the beginnings of the song starting to take shape. Suddenly John broke through impatiently

“Okay, let’s do it again,” he said in an irritated voice. “Okay, okay, you get it. Okay, okay.” Smirking, he continued, “Let’s not get too serious. We’re not getting paid. And if anyone gets bored with me, just take over.”

Behind the drums, Paul rolled his eyes, as he noticed the tell tale signs of John finally coming down from his high. The perky, happy man being replaced by a bitter and angry one. The band started to play again, but after a few bars, John interrupted the song, his irritation making him sound like a squadron leader.

“Boys in the control room,” he said as he looked over the control booth door. “Can you turn the voice off and one ear off, and if you’re trying to get rid of my guitar…” Growing increasingly agitated, John put down his guitar as he stumbled towards the control room door. “Turn the friggin’ vocal mic off again and put it all flat and put one mic in the middle of the room and pick up everything.”

With a sigh, Paul stood and made his way towards John, the man swaying slightly as he tried to put one foot in front of the other. So, he placed one arm around John’s waist and escorted him back towards the mic, to which John rewarded him with a small smile.

Whispering he said, “Ta, Macca.” Then turning back towards the mic, he said loudly, “Come on, Steve.” Tapping his mic, he continued, “Hello, hello, hello.” Then with a smirk, “Mal give us a drink.”

Everyone in the room rolled their eyes, as they shouldered guitars, poised fingers over piano and saxophone keys, and spun drumsticks before starting to play.

John muttering to himself, “Now the guitar’s gone fast.”

_When the night has come_   
_And the land is dark_   
_And the moon is the only light we see_   
_No, I won’t be afraid_   
_Oh, I won’t be afraid_   
_Just as long as you stand_   
_Stand by me, so_

John twisted his body around the mic, as he faced his old mate, the two singing in tandem, their harmonizing as skilled as it had ever been. Unbeknownst to John and Paul, the other men kept their eyes fixed on them, silently marveling at how in tune to each other they were. How closely connected.

_Darling, darling stand by me_   
_Oh, stand by me_   
_Oh stand, stand by me, stand by me_   
_If the sky that we look upon_   
_Should tumble and fall_   
_If the mountain_   
_Should crumble to the sea_   
_I won’t cry, I won’t cry_   
_No, I won’t shed a tear_   
_Just as long as you stand_   
_Stand by me, and_

_Whenever you’re in trouble  
Won’t you stand by me, oh stand by me._

When the song came to end, John shouted out, “Time for a break,” prompting the others to groan in frustration as he bounded out of the studio with a slam. Rolling his eyes, Paul followed right after, finding his old partner sitting out on the patio, joint clutched between his fingertips as he stared out at the ocean.

“You know,” Paul began as he lowered himself in a chair. “That wasn’t all that bad.”

Turning his head, John asked, “What wasn’t all that bad?”

“Playing together again.”

John turned his head away, and silently regarded the waves, taking a drag of the joint before passing it over to Paul.

“I think you might be right,” John finally replied with an exhalation of smoke.

Paul nodded with a smile, as the two turned to look out towards the beach, waving at Linda and May as he caught sight of them in the waves. A comfortable silence descended upon the two as they passed the joint back and forth. Once that was done, Paul pulled out a box of cigarettes, and upon offering one to John he pulled one out for himself.

“Fucking odd though, isn’t it?” John finally said, breaking the silence, cigarette dangling from his lips. “We haven’t been together like this in years.”

“I know,” Paul replied somewhat sadly. “Makes you wonder why the fuck we stopped to begin with.”

Turning to face John, who had turned at the same time, the two looked at each other for a tense second before looking away again. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two, as they each were lost in their own thoughts.

Suddenly with a sigh, John stood and offered his hand to Paul. “Let’s get back inside, ey?” John said with a tilt of his head. “We still have work to do.”

Smiling slightly, Paul took his hand and let the older man pull him to his feet, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing the still burning embers under his boot heel as he followed the older man back inside.


	32. One and One is Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Though the house had not really been lived in for some time, it still looked as though it had been well-taken care of. The wood floors were polished to a glossy shine, the windows in each room were left wide open for air circulation, and all pieces of furniture were dust free. The grounds were still carefully tended, flowerbeds lovingly watered, the weeds pruned away, and the horses exercised daily at ten in the morning.

As Paul looked out the window, he could almost fool himself into believing that his father was still alive.

With a sigh, the dark-haired man turned away from the picture perfect landscape, as he escaped further into the house, sadness welling up in him at an alarming rate. He still expected to hear his dad’s jovial laugh from the family room as he struck chords on their old upright piano or see him lovingly embrace Angie, Paul’s stepmother. But it was not to be. So, with a heavy heart he ascended the stairs to the first floor, steeling himself for the task at hand.

Looking through his father’s belongings.

His stepmother and his half-sister, Ruth, were ill-equipped for the challenge, both still too distraught to do what needed to be done, as evidenced by their moving out of the home once Jim McCartney had passed away.

“It’s too hard, Paulie,” Angie had wept tearfully over the phone. “I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

“Please, big brother,” Ruth had echoed.

So, with a long sigh, Paul trudged up the stairs and did what he had to do.

At the top of the stairs, he found the painting of the horse that he had given his dad for his 64th birthday. The older McCartney believing that that was all to his gift, the thought that he owned the bloody horse never even entering his mind. In a small storage closet Paul found the old gray hat that his dad would wear, the brim slightly bent from years of use. Under the bed was Jim’s cane with the brass handle which he’d swing jauntily as he strolled through the grounds of the house, giving the impression that he had been born to such wealth.

With a shake of his head, Paul packed up the items slowly, a picture frame here, an old book there, meticulously cataloging his father’s possessions.

By and by, Paul entered a small closet near the back of the house surprised to find it empty save for a battered old box resting on the floor. With a curious look etched into his face, Paul bent low and dragged the box out of the closet, sitting before it as he pulled it open.

With a gasp of surprise, Paul began to sift through its contents, pulling out his old school uniform, childhood pictures of himself and his school mates, tattered and torn books from years past, the pages covered in his tiny writing with obscene little drawings in the corners. With a laugh, he found an old ragged leather jacket, the lining now non-existent with rips all along the seams. Smiling, Paul pulled the objects out and placed them on the floor beside him, his fingers gently probing the folds of the leather jacket as he put it aside.

With a sly grin, he stood, taking the jacket with him as he walked into the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, he slowly slipped the worn leather over his shoulders, the sleeves a bit snug since the last time he wore it. Once the jacket was on, he pirouetted slowly in front of the looking glass, scrutinizing himself from every angle.

With a slow smirk he muttered to himself, “Well, it’s a bit tighter than before, but how many men can say that they can still fit into clothes from their twenties?”

So, with a self-satisfied wink and a grin, he shut off the bathroom light before making his way back to the box, kneeling beside the open container as he peered inside again. Sifting the contents around, Paul let out a low squeak of surprise as his hands brushed against a small tape that lay halfway beneath a pile of old composition books. Fingers curling around it, he pulled the tape free, sitting back down with a thud as he gazed curiously at the unlabeled object. His mind started to fly all over the place, trying to place the mysterious tape, but he kept drawing a blank.

Absently he said to himself, “I guess the only way to find out where this is from is to play the bloody thing.”

So, lurching to his feet, Paul went into his dad’s old music room, home to his old 78s, an ancient wound up turntable that needed a needle change every couple of albums, and, tucked away in a dark corner was an old tape player that he had bought years ago and had stashed in his father’s home. Blowing the dust away, Paul placed it on a nearby table and turned it on, waiting for the contraption to warm up before inserting the tape. Upon pressing play, a wholly familiar strumming filled the room, and Paul literally sank into a chair as his own voice came through the speakers.

_One and one is two._   
_What am I to do?_   
_Now that I’m in love with you?_   
_I’m hoping everyday I’m gonna hear you say,_   
_You really make my wish come true._

_Can you see when I’m holding you near?_   
_All the things I do?_   
_So, my love, am I making it clear?_   
_One and one is two._

_One and one is two._   
_What am I to do?_   
_Now that I’m in love with you?_   
_I’m hoping everyday I’m gonna hear you say,_   
_You really make my wish come true._

Memories of a long-forgotten autumn afternoon in Paris filled his mind, as he remembered sitting with John in Jurgen Vollmer’s Spartan hotel room in a dilapidated section of the Latin Quarter, sitting on his bed as they sipped cheap red wine with the tape recorder between them, They had written the song together, knees touching, elbowing each other’s hand out of the way as they quickly penned the words, ignoring the feelings that were coursing between them right below the surface.

It had been Paul’s song mostly, so the younger man had sung it, his voice earnest and sweet as the words flowed out of him. Sitting in his father’s music room, Paul could feel himself flush slightly as he remembered John’s intense look as he sang, the older boy’s dark eyes trained on his, neither looking away.

_Can’t you see I’ve loved you from the start?_   
_Don’t you love me too?_   
_I love you but you’re breaking my heart._   
_From wanting you._

_One and one is two._   
_What am I to do?_   
_Now that I’m in love with you?_   
_I’m hoping everyday I’m gonna hear you say,_   
_You really make my wish come true._

_If you say that you’re gonna be mine_   
_Everything’s alright._   
_All the world would look so fine_   
_If you’ll be mine tonight._

_One and one is two._   
_What am I to do?_   
_Now that I’m in love with you?_   
_I’m hoping everyday I’m gonna hear you say,_   
_You really make my wish come true._

As the song ended, Paul sat back with a sigh, letting the tape run out with a snap and a click. Shock still infused his face as the song played back in his mind.

“I can’t fucking believe that that tape still exists,” Paul said aloud as he shook his head in disbelief.

Standing up, he ran a hand through his hair as he moved towards the window, gazing outside before turning back towards the player. Then without a second’s thought, he left the room and returned seconds later with phone in tow, the cord stretching in from the hallway as he placed it on the table.

Sitting down again, Paul lifted the receiver and after a moment’s pause, he hurriedly dialed a number, face falling when the answering machine picked up.

“Uh… hi, John” Paul began hesitantly, his voice cracking slightly. Clearing his throat, he continued. “I’m at my dad’s right now, looking through his belongings when I found an box of some of my old things.” Laughing Paul said, “Fucking hell, mate. Can you believe that I can still fit into our old leather gear?” Then with a roll of his eyes, as he rested his head on his elbows, Paul got back on track. “Well, anyway, that wasn’t why I called. I called because I found an old tape that I think you might be interested in. Watch out for it in the post, all right? I’ll send it to you as soon as I can make a copy of it.” With a mischievous grin in his voice, Paul said, “Here’s a hint for you, cheap red wine in the Latin Quarter.”

He then disconnected the call.

With a sigh, Paul leaned forward and dropped the receiver back in its cradle afore rewinding the tape and letting the song play again. With a sigh, Paul pulled a cigarette out as he got comfortable, a line of smoke spiraling over his head as stared out the window.


	33. Free As A Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Unlike most days, and all hours of the day, the apartment was quite quiet. Surprisingly, there were no sounds of a telly blaring, a radio blasting, or even a baby crying, giving the spacious home a very serene atmosphere. Sultry sunlight streamed through the open windows, the curtains pulled aside to allow the entrance of light, but the windows themselves were shuttered tight to keep out the sounds of New York traffic.

On a pristine white sofa, John lounged about a bit dejectedly, his mouth turned downwards, as he watched the clock on the wall for lack of something better to do. His right foot absently rocked a bassinet that sat on the floor nearby, baby Sean snuggled inside under colourful blankets, his head of dark hair just visible over the top, pacifier in his mouth. Sitting up, John leaned down, the harsh look in his eyes softening as they gazed down at his son, a small smile pulling at his lips as he carefully arranged the blankets around the baby, making sure that his head didn’t disappear under them.

With a tired sigh, John leaned back into the cushions again, his feet now propped up on the table as he slumped down, and looking incredibly tired and incredibly bored. Foot tapping nervously, and his eyes darting from one white wall to the next, John started to feel a bit loopy, the apartment that had one seemed large and inviting, now feeling a bit restrictive and cramped.

It felt like the walls were fucking closing in on him, and John had no idea what to do.

Ever since he had returned to New York after his so-called “Lost Weekend,” John had been loathe to get out of the house, saying that he had had enough partying to last him for a long time. Then Sean had been born, and he made the decision to make his stay at home a bit more permanent, by becoming a househusband.

He loved spending time with Sean, but being confined to the house most of the day, while Yoko went about doing whatever the hell it was that she did, was starting to drive the poor man mad!

So, he sat day in and day out in their apartment, taking care of the baby and doing the things that he never had the chance to do for Julian. He finally got the chance to be a real father.

With another sigh, John turned on the TV, and started flipping through channel after channel of shitty daytime programming that consisted of a string of identical soap operas, infomercials hawking useless gadgets, and talk shows that put the seedy underbelly of American culture on display. With an angry snort, John nearly threw the remote across the room in frustration, when he stumbled across a very familiar face.

It was Paul.

_Mull of Kintyre_   
_Oh mist rolling in from the sea,_   
_My desire is always to be here_   
_Oh mull of Kintyre_   
_Far have I traveled and much have I seen_   
_Dark distant mountains with valleys of green._   
_Past painted deserts the sunsets on fire_   
_As he carries me home to the mull of Kintyre._

_Mull of Kintyre_   
_Oh mist rolling in from the sea,_   
_My desire is always to be here_   
_Oh mull of Kintyre._

“Fucking hell,” John muttered under his breath as he sat up, moving to the edge of his seat as he leaned closer to the television, his eyes drinking in the sight of his old mate wandering about a Scottish countryside, his long dark hair blowing behind him as he strummed a guitar. John’s foot tapped lightly to the lilting music, though cringing at some of the lyrics themselves.

Shaking his head, John said under his breath, “Macca, old mate. The tune is all right, but have you bought the bloody rights to all sappy lyrics for the next fucking century?” Shaking his head almost sadly, he continued, “Only you’d write a soddin’ love song about a fucking piece of land, mate.”

_Sweep through the heather like deer in the glen_   
_Carry me back to the days I knew then._   
_Nights when we sang like a heavenly choir_   
_Of the life and the time of the mull of Kintyre._

_Mull of Kintyre_   
_Oh mist rolling in from the sea,_   
_My desire is always to be here_   
_Oh mull of Kintyre_

_Smiles in the sunshine_   
_And tears in the rain_   
_Still take me back to where my memories remain_   
_Flickering embers growing higher and higher_   
_As they carry me back to the mull of Kintyre._

But though he complained, John sat through the whole video, the music fading into the background as his attention honed in on Paul, and only Paul. It had been a while since he had last seen his old partner, but, as always, the sight of him never failed to make John sit up and take notice. The mere presence of the younger man making it harder for him to notice anything else around him.

_Mull of Kintyre_   
_Oh mist rolling in from the sea,_   
_My desire is always to be here_   
_Oh mull of Kintyre_

_Mull of Kintyre_   
_Oh mist rolling in from the sea,_   
_My desire is always to be here_   
_Oh mull of Kintyre._

Once the video was through, John stood and turned off the telly, running a hand through his hair as he paced the length of the room, agitation sweeping through him.

He wanted to write again.

Any little fucking thing would do. A small ditty, a bit of a story, maybe even a bloody poem. Just something. But truth be told, John was scared. It had been so long since the last time he had written anything remotely resembling anything, and he felt that perhaps he had lost it.

Silently wandering into his bedroom, John stared at the guitar hanging on the wall above his bed before turning away with a sigh, sitting down on the edge of the mattress as he put his head in his hands. His body tense as he tried to find inspiration in something.

However, none came.

John lifted his head with a sigh as he began patting his pockets for a carton of cigarettes. Finding none, he opened his nightstand drawer, hoping to find a fag for his nicotine fix. An opened box was suddenly spotted near the bottom and he pulled it out; startled to see his old battered notebook lying underneath it. Cigarette now forgotten, he tucked the box inside his pocket before turning his attention to more important matters. With growing trepidation, John pulled the book out of the drawer, smiling slightly as he flipped through the pages, eyes skimming over lyrics written so long ago. After a moment, John paused, pulling out a photograph that had been wedged inside, cracked and bent with the edges yellowing.

A picture of himself and Paul.

John looked at it silently, seeming to contemplate the image before putting it down on the bed and resolutely flipping the notebook to a free page.

John turned his head towards the window for a brief moment before beginning to write, the thoughts of his self-imposed prison flitting through his mind as the scratching sound of his pencil moving across the paper filled the room. Though hesitant and slow at first, it gained momentum with each passing moment. Every now and then he’d lower his pencil and turn back to the picture of himself and Paul, gazing at it almost absently before starting to write again.

After some time had passed, filled with scrutinizing glares and balled pieces of paper thrown at the wall, John suddenly stood. Grabbing the picture, he used it to mark his page in the notebook before returning to the living room with it still clutched tightly in his hand. With a small grin, he walked over to Sean’s bassinet, finding the tyke still fast asleep. Leaning in, he placed a soft kiss on his son’s forehead before moving towards the piano.

Lowering himself gingerly on the piano bench, John grimaced as he looked down at the blanket of dust that covered the once glossy surface, Sneezing, he opened the instrument up as dust flew into the air, causing him to sneeze rather violently. Still sniffing slightly, John placed the opened book and the photograph on the piano before positioning his fingers over the ebony and ivory keys, quickly finding the chords that complemented the tune in his head as he began to sing under his breath.

_Free as a bird_   
_It’s the next best thing to be_   
_Free as a bird_

_Home and dry_   
_Like a homing bird I fly_   
_as a bird on wings._

_Whatever happened_   
_The life that we once knew…_

John’s voice faltered at that moment, the dark-haired man at a loss for the next line. Mumbling under his breath, he said somewhat bitterly, “Fucking hell, at times like this I really wish that Paul was here.”

Looking at the picture as it continued to rest alongside the book, John threw a furtive glance around the room before picking it up and giving Paul a quick kiss on the lips. A bit embarrassed with himself, John quickly flipped the picture over and returned it to its previous resting place.

“You’re fucking daft, mate,” he admonished himself with a quick shake of the head as he continued where he left off.

_Whatever happened to_   
_The life that we once knew_   
_Free as a bird_

_Free as a bird_   
_It’s the next best thing to be_   
_Free as a bird_

_Home and dry_   
_Like a homing bird I fly_

_Free as a bird…_

As the song came to an end, John lowered his hands to his lap with a sigh. Not convinced that the song was even worth bothering with, he closed the lid on the piano, before he finally fished out a cigarette and his trusty lighter, lighting the fag with a flick of the wrist. Placing both items on the piano, John slowly grabbed the picture again, staring at the image as he turned his body to face the window, looking into the street below.


	34. Coming Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

Strolling through the busy streets of New York, anyone could remain anonymous, even the rich and the famous. People generally went about their daily business, too absorbed in the little dramas of their own lives to really give a damn about anyone else. Pushing, shoving, and thrashing around for every inch of space were some of the things that characterized the New York way of life.

So, there really was no reason for John to walk about the streets as he was at the moment. Dark sunglasses obscuring his face as he wrapped a shapeless jacket around his thin frame and crammed a hat over his head. The more inconspicuous he tried to be, the more conspicuous he became, his fast moving body the object of idle curiosity. The funny thing though was that John frequently strolled through the streets of the city without any disguise at all, pushing Sean in his little stroller as he stopped and said hi to fans, sometimes even signing the occasional autograph.

Today, however, was different. Today he had embarked on a mission that he wished to keep secret, for should news of it spread, he would be fucking done for.

John had gone out to buy himself the latest Paul McCartney album.

Will wonders never cease?

He had never really had such a strong urge to go out and buy one of his old mate’s records before. Sure he owned a few, but most were fetched for him by his assistants, and one or two were even gifts from the man himself, but today, after hearing Paul’s latest single on the radio, well, he just had to have it.

Right fucking now.

So off he went, making sure that someone was home to watch after Sean for an hour or two while he went in search for his newest obsession.

After a few minutes of walking briskly, John finally reached his destination, a small hole in the wall record store that surprisingly held every record imaginable, everything from the new releases to the most hard-to-find recording one could possibly think of. So, with eyes darting around the establishment, John surreptitiously entered, as he lowered his sunglasses slightly before returning them to their previous perch. Convinced that the coast was clear, he moved towards the shelves, again not noticing the furtive glances that he got from those around him.

Moving from one row of shelves to another, John moved around the store, picking up and putting down albums that he had no intention of buying. As he moved past the B section, he moved all the Beatles albums to the back of the stack with a smirk and doing the exact opposite with his own solo releases when he reached the L’s.

Moving slowly around the perimeter of the store, John finally ended up back at the front, and with a more purposeful stride, he went straight for the new releases, nearly beating his head against a wall when he saw the huge Beatles display taking up most of the front aisle. With a disgusted shake of his head, John quickly moved past it, his eyes zeroing in on the huge cardboard cut out of America’s current music darling: Paul McCartney

Smirking, John stared at the two dimensional version of his old mate, the grinning image indecently fondling a bass as he posed standing up with his legs splayed apart. With, a shake of his head, John turned toward the stack of shiny new record sleeves, his hand hesitantly reaching out to pluck one out. With a quick glance around him, the nervous man tucked the album under his arm as he strode to the nearest cashier, plunking his acquisition down on the counter as he waited to be assisted.

With a sly grin, the cashier rang up John’s purchase as he inserted the album into a brown paper bag, the impatient John tapping his foot against the floor. Finally the transaction was complete, and John grabbed his bag and quickly moved towards the exit, his escape accompanied by the loud words of the cashier.

“Have a good day, Mr. Lennon!”

Turning back, John shot the teenager a glare before stomping out the store like a petulant child.

Once he was out on the sidewalk, John practically flew to his apartment, humming the opening strains of “Coming Up” under his breath as he made short work of the distance to the Dakota. In a matter of minutes, John was within the building, cursing the elevator for not going faster as he rode to the sixth floor. The elevator attendant did not bat an eye at John’s odd behaviour, having been witness to even crazier things during his tenure as an elevator attendant. Soon the upward movement stopped and as the door slid open John barreled through as he fumbled with his keys.

Upon entering the apartment, John called out, “Yoko? Are you in here? Is anybody home?”

His words were met with silence.

Quietly moving through the flat, John peered cautiously into the different rooms, amber coloured head moving from side to side as he made sure that he was alone. After assessing the situation, John returned to the living room and after shrugging off his jacket and flipping the hat and sunglasses onto a nearby table, he padded toward his turntable. Taking the album out of its bag, John paused for a moment as he glanced down on the album cover, his eyes almost lovingly caressing Paul’s face, an adorable look of astonishment etched into his mate’s face.

Then with a touch of reverence, John placed the record on the player and lowered the needle before settling down in front of it, knees drawn to his chest as the song in question started to play.

_Want a love to last forever_   
_One that will never fade away_   
_I want to help you with your problem_   
_Stick around, I say_

_Coming up, coming up, yeah_   
_Coming up like a flower_   
_Coming up, I say_

_You want a friend you- can rely on_   
_One who will never fade away_   
_And if you’re searching for an answer_   
_Stick around. I say_

_It’s coming up, its coming up_   
_It’s coming up like a flower_   
_It’s coming up. Yeah_

_You want some peace and understanding_   
_So everybody can be free_   
_I know that we can get together_   
_We can make it, stick with me_

Toes tapping to the beat, John reluctantly allowed himself to get swept away by the song, the catchy hooks so obviously the work of his erstwhile partner. It was the first McCartney song in a long time to actually make him proud of his old mate, and he couldn’t help but smile as he realized that.

Besides, upon second hearing, he could finally understand all of the lyrics, and the fact that they seemed to be directed towards him definitely did not hurt.

_It’s coming up, its coming up_   
_It’s coming up like a flower_   
_It’s coming up for you and me_

_Coming up, coming up_   
_It’s coming up, its coming up, I say_   
_It’s coming up like a flower_   
_It’s coming up_   
_I feel it in my bones_

_You want a better kind of future_   
_One that everyone can share_   
_You’re not alone, we all could use it_   
_Stick around were nearly there_

_It’s coming up, its coming up everywhere_   
_It’s coming up like a flower_   
_It’s coming up for all to share_   
_It’s coming up, yeah_   
_It’s coming up, anyway_   
_It’s coming up like a flower_   
_Coming up_

The song soon came to an end and John immediately jumped up, putting the song on repeat, as he walked across the room, eyes continuously darting towards the phone. Finally with a sigh, John walked over and lifted the receiver to his ear while his other hand dialed quickly before he lost his nerve. Listening to the phone ring a number of times, John nearly gave up, when he heard a voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

With a small smile, John leaned up against the wall as he said, “Paulie, Paulie, Paulie,” punctuating each word with a shake of his head. “If you’re going to start writing bloody songs like ‘Coming Up,’ I think I’m going to have to come out of fucking retirement.”

Then laughing at the response on other end, John slid down to the floor and lay down, his back against the thick carpeting as he listened intently to what was being said on the other side, one hand holding the phone to his ear while the other held the album cover in front of his eyes.


	35. Here Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  The story of John and Paul’s relationship over the years as told through the songs they sang.

The lights in the arena dimmed, as the excitement and the anticipation in the audience built to a feverish pitch. People moved restlessly in their seats, watching as the band slowly shuffled off stage, waving goodbye happily as they carried their instruments with them. Then Paul moved towards the microphone, acoustic guitar in hand, his appearance from within the shadows eliciting applause and catcalls.

Although he had continued to perform rather frequently since the Beatles’ demise, he always found himself comparing his concerts to the ones long past, amazed at just how different things now were. The audience was no longer a writhing mass of screaming and crying girls of all ages fainting at the slightest provocation. Paul could honestly say that he didn’t really miss that, preferring the fact that the audience actually came now to hear him sing.

Of course, he never failed to miss one of the aspects of those old Beatles shows, and that was John’s presence, the two harmonizing together as they shared a mic or exchanging sly looks and smiles across the stage.

Stepping up to the microphone, Paul cleared his throat rather nervously as he spoke, “ I wrote this next song, when my dear friend John passed away…” And with a pained look at the audience, Paul started to strum his acoustic, the words rising to his lips in a plaintive sound.

_And if I say I really knew you well_   
_What would your answer be?_   
_If you were here today._   
_Ooh- ooh- ooh- here to – day._

“Paul, it’s about John. He’s been shot. He’s… he’s dead.”

After hearing the news, Paul had spent days lying in bed, a bottle of scotch in one hand and a joint in the other. Unshaved and unwashed, he behaved the way he had after losing John for the first time, drowning his sorrows in an alcohol and pot-infused haze.

Only this time that loss was fucking permanent.

_Well knowing you,_   
_You’d probably laugh and say that we were worlds apart._   
_If you were here today._   
_Ooh- ooh- ooh- here to – day._

“It’s a drag.”

Over and over again, the words he had uttered after being ambushed by the press played in his head, taunting him, distressing him.

The uncaring words had reverberated around the world. People around the world shocked at the callousness displayed by the person whom they had always thought were the closest person to John. But Paul had ashamedly remembered his words after his mum died, “What will we do without her money?” And as one could see, he always had the tendency to put his foot in his mouth in the face of debilitating tragedy.

_But as for me,_   
_I still remember how it was before._   
_And I am holding back the tears no more._   
_Ooh- ooh- ooh- I love you, ooh-_

“Paul was the one person who had hurt John the most.”

Flipping on the telly had been no relief whatsoever. Every fucking news programme featured a segment on John’s passing, showcasing interviews with people who had known John in passing, offering their words on the man, the myth, and the legend. Not an ounce of truth expelled from between their lips.

Until Yoko had put in her two cents.

Was it true? Had Paul been the one person in John’s life to have hurt him the most?

For days on end, Paul agonized over the words. Not daring to believe them. But they did make him think, to try to remember instances where he had displayed cruelty towards his old mate, partner, and love.

Had he really been the bastard and John the saint?

John, a fucking saint.

At the words, Paul had involuntarily smirked, imagining the look of horror on John’s face if he had been around to hear about his canonization. The bugger surely must’ve fucking rolled over in his grave at the thought.

_What about the time we met,_   
_Well I suppose that you could say that we were playing hard to get._   
_Didn’t understand a thing._   
_But we could always sing._

Flipping through old photo albums and listening to their old LPs, Paul pored over their lyrics, remembering the thinly veiled significance of each word and what it had meant to them at the time.

The threat of loss in “I’ll Follow the Sun.”

A plea to be held close in “Hold Me Tight.”

Begging not to be treated differently in the light of day as in “The Night Before.”

Agonized desire and need in “I Want You.”

Their entire relationship played out in front of the public eye, or rather ear, and all one had to do was listen intently to their words to know.

_What about the night we cried,_   
_Because there wasn’t any reason left to keep it all inside._   
_Never understood a word._   
_But you were always there with a smile._

When he was finally able to pull himself together, Paul had sat at his desk, eyes gazing vacantly at the wall in front as a blank page in an old notebook sat before him, a pen clutched tightly in his hand. Every minute or so, he looked down and wrote a word or two, only to tear the page out with a look of disgust, crumpling it up and throwing it in a distant corner.

It was time to write one final song for his old mate, to express his deep love and devotion for a man who was no longer around to hear it.

_And if I say I really loved you  
And was glad you came along._

In his life, there was no other person who had had such a profound impact on his life. No other person who had changed him in so many ways that John had, and whom he had changed in turn. They had shared so much over the years, even when when they had been separated, the pull was still there. John was under his skin, and no amount of denying it would change that fact.

They were fucking soul mates. Plain and simple.

Paul had always assumed that they’s end up together in the end, that they would’ve put all the bullshit behind them and repaired the damage that had been done to their relationship…

But most of all. Paul always thought that he’d get to hold John in his arms again and tell the other man that he’d never stopped loving him, and that nothing would ever change that.

_If you were here today.  
Ooh- ooh- ooh- for you were in my song.  
Ooh- ooh- ooh- here to – day._

As the strains of his acoustic guitar faded away, Paul looked out into the crowd, his expression of sadness mirrored on the faces of those who looked up at him in awe. And so, with a tremulous smile, Paul lowered his guitar and bowed slightly, before the spotlight was extinguished and he walked offstage.


End file.
